


The Struggling Sociopath

by orphan_account



Series: The Sociopath Society [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Army, Doctor training, Dogs, Drug Use, F/M, In love or not in love?, M/M, More angst, Post-Reichenbach (Sorta), Trying to move on, consulting detective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-10-10
Packaged: 2017-12-27 05:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 23,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been half a year. Half a year since that fateful day. Still John has not recovered. He cannot get over it. He sees Him in his sleep, is failing his courses at university and just about gets by with life. He is seeing a therapist, though it doesn't help. He isn't depressed. Just empty. Without Him.<br/>But, eventually, things do continue. The world continues. Starting with buying a puppy and moving on to getting out all his feelings, thoughts, John begins to recover. Slowly, but surely. He goes on in life. He continues. He never forgets but he, ultimately, moves on.<br/>Moves on and eventually loses all hope that He is alive. That He will ever come back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And We Continued As If It Never Happened

Half a year. Half a year since it happened. Since he fell. Committed suicide. Jumped. Since John lost his best friend. His boyfriend. His only love.

Half a year and he was still haunted by the nightmares of that day. The phone call, His final words.

“I love you, John. Goodbye.” John had watched as He had taken a step off the school building and fallen to his death. After claiming that he was indeed a fake. That he was a cheat, thief and did drugs. But John wouldn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it. He would not tell everyone that Sh- HE was a fake. Because he wasn’t. He couldn’t have been. He was too smart and too clever. He just had enemies. That wanted to take him out.

No matter how hard he tried John could not forget him. Could not stop the horrors that plagued his dreams and each of his steps in life. He was seeing someone about it. An attempt for them to stop him feeling the grief. So he could move on and step out of his depression. It wasn’t depression. Not really. He just couldn’t feel anymore. When He had jumped it had destroyed John’s heart. Now there was a black hole where it had been. Devoid of any emotion.

No matter how many times John told them, though, they wouldn’t believe him. He couldn’t really blame them. After all he had applied to the University a straight A student. Hardworking, praised by all his teachers and very good at making friends. Yet here he was failing at his course, alone and hardly bothering to do the work. What was the point? He had lost the one thing he lived for. He really only still had two friends. Molly and Lestrade. He had kept in contact with both though they had gone their different ways. Sometimes they met up. When John felt up to it. Molly was the nicest, the most sympathetic. She understood what was going on. She had felt the blow when He jumped as well. Just not as hard as John had. Lestrade was ok. He was doing a course to become a Detective Inspector. He just tried to keep John’s mind of Him when they met up. Took him drinking and such.

But nothing could fill the emptiness in his heart. Not creating a blog, concentrating on his work, helping people, nothing. Nothing that was suggested really helped. He did the bare minimum required of him. Ate enough to survive, slept less than he should, did the work when he had to. He knew he should do more. Try and re-enter the world. He was already being threatened with having to leave the university if he didn’t get his act together. But did that really matter?

Yes. Some small part of him said that it did. He would have wanted it. Wanted John to become a doctor as he had always dreamed. To go on and help people. Do something great in the world. Continue being the good person that He had thought John was.

“This cannot continue, John,” John stared at his therapist in almost boredom. He had been seeing her for just under half a year, after his mum had gotten worried and applied for one on his behalf. He disliked these sessions. They always tried to get him to talk. About Him. But he didn’t want to. They were his memories! No one else had a right to hear them.

“I know,” John murmured, running a hand through his short blond hair. There were black bags under his eyes from the lack of sleep. Due to nightmares.

“Everyone is worried about you,” his therapist continued. “You need to increase your grades to continue at the University. You want to become a doctor, don’t you?” John nodded. “Well you need to work hard for that to happen. He is not coming back, John. You have to face up to that. But think of the people you will help. The lives you could save. You are a very bright man and would make a brilliant Doctor. And hospitals now need all the good doctors they can get.”

John nodded again. He knew all this. It was what he told himself constantly. That he should become a doctor, he had to. And that He wanted it. But he couldn’t bring himself to try. He couldn’t just forget and move on. It wasn’t possible.

“I spoke to your mother yesterday.” John blinked. Brilliant. His mother was ever so worried, constantly plaguing him with phone calls and telling him to speak to his therapist. That if he let it all out then maybe he would feel better. He probably would. But he didn’t have anyone to tell. Anyone he trusted.

“She has an idea to help you,” his therapist continued. John half listened. “She thinks you should get a dog. Thinks it will help.”

“A dog?” John tilted his head slightly. “But I live in the hall of residence. I wouldn’t be allowed one.”

“They will make an exception for you. If it helps.”

“I’m not sure I can afford it.”

“You’re mum has offered to pay for any medical issues and also other things if needed,” his therapist smiled. “It’s all sorted out. Don’t worry. And actually, a friend of mine has a dog that recently had puppies. Bulldog pups. She’s selling them for quite cheap prices also. Here’s her address and phone number. Contact her.” His therapist handed over a piece of rectangular white card with words on it. “Now, is there anything you want to speak about?” John shook his head. “I think that’s all then.” John nodded before getting up to leave.

“Who’s a beautiful puppy dog? Yes you are, you are,” John cooed, a light smile on his face. He was so glad that his therapist had suggested getting a dog. He had already fallen in love with the little bulldog pup that he had bought. He was sure he wasn’t going to regret the decision. Even if it did involve reducing his spending. It wasn’t like he went out much or anything. “What should we call you? Any thoughts?” He chuckled. He must have sounded mad. Talking to a dog. But truthfully, he hadn’t been able to talk to anyone properly in so long. And now that he had this puppy... he felt like he had the freedom to say what he wanted to it.

Now, names... names. He could name the puppy after Him. No, that would be too painful. Would bring back to many memories... saying that name. It couldn’t be a generic name. That was too boring. He wouldn’t have liked that. No... Something a bit unusual.

Then it hit John. He had a name.

“Gladstone,” John smiled, gently patting the puppy’s head. “You’ll be named Gladstone.” Well, the pup certainly seemed to agree. Rubbing gently against John. John laughed.

“You’re lovely, you know,” John whispered, pulling Gladstone onto his lap and gently scratching him between the ears. The little puppy began to wag its tail, relaxing. “A dog is a man’s best friend, is that not the saying. I don’t really have any other friends. I did once have one. He was more than a friend, really. I loved him.” John felt tears prick his eyes. “Sh... No, I can’t say his name. But he was brilliant. Smart, a genius really. He could tell these things about you with just one look. And he was handsome. He was so good looking that you wouldn’t believe him. He had so many good points... Though he could be an annoying bastard.” John’s laugh was slightly choked. “Well... he was great. He was going to be sixteen when he went to university. Was going to become a consulting detective. The world’s only one. We won’t ever get one now...” John coughed slightly, trying to keep his voice steady. Not like it matter. He was talking to a _dog._ “Well, something bad happened. Something really bad. I’m not sure exactly what caused it, but I think it was James Moriarty. Sherlock jumped. He jumped off the school. Killed himself. Committed suicide. Call it what you want. He’s dead now. He’s been dead for half a year. I loved him. So much that it still hurt. His last words to me were ‘I love you, John. Goodbye.’ How could he do this to me?! The selfish bastard! How could he die and leave me behind knowing full well how I would feel. I hate him so much yet I also love him. I miss him. I feel... empty without him. Like when he died my heart died with him. I will never have the life I dreamed of. Because he fell.” John suddenly let it all out, allowing the sobs to fully form. Cried tears he thought he had cried half a year ago. Hugged Gladstone tightly to him as he let it all out. All the grief, the anger, the words he never got to say.

 All the emotions that had been cooped up inside him when He died.


	2. A Way To Escape

Long fingers fumbled with the packet. Taking time to pull the sterile needle out. Positioning it above the forearm. On scar covered pale skin. It was pushed in, a sigh escaping the user’s lips. He leaned back, staring up at the roof of the small grotty flat that was his home. It could have been worse. At least he was alone. Which was good. Allowed him to go about as he pleased and work as he pleased.

Well, apart from the online university course his brother had forced him to take. Part of the bargain that allowed him to stay in a flat and unsupervised and to also use... drugs. But it wasn’t an addiction. It was a way for him to escape from the constant nagging of his mind; never giving him a break.

The coursework was easy enough. Gave him time to scout around London. Snoop in on a few murder cases and annoy the police by solving them. He was just helping, though. But he was used to negative reactions to his deductions.

Sometimes... just sometimes, when he felt up to it, he would sneak onto the campus of the University of London. Just to watch him. The man he had fallen for. The one love of his life. John Watson.

It had been half a year since Sherlock had faked his own suicide. Yet it didn’t make the pain of the separation any easier, the pain of seeing Kohn so depressed. Sherlock had never before truly felt emotions. Not really. Yet in his last year of school they had bombarded him. It had been confusing... and he couldn’t ignore them. It was these very feelings that made him jump.

It had been a downward spiral from there. He had gone back to smoking and then drugs; craving a release. He barely ate and slept even less than normal. What little sleep he had was riddled with nightmares. Things he was all too used to. And he had no one to confide in. He had found the one person he could truly trust and confide in. John. Now he had lost him. In fact, there were only two people that knew Sherlock was alive. Mycroft and Molly. Sherlock had little contact with Molly and didn’t exactly get along with his brother.

His whole death was so real to everyone else. He had even been buried. Sherlock knew for a fact that John visited his grave every weekend. That he was still recovering. It was a hard blow to Sherlock. Seeing John the way he was. And it was his entire fault.

Sherlock frowned slightly to himself as he pulled his laptop from the coffee table, flicking it open. His hands hovered over the keyboard before tapping away. Doing his stupid university work. It took next to no brainpower to complete. That was why Sherlock did it while under the effects of the drug. He didn’t need his mind sharp to complete any of it.

A constant beeping interrupted the clicking of keys. Sherlock sighed as he pulled his mobile out of his pocket. Mycroft _knew_ that he preferred texting.

“What do you want?” Sherlock mustered a board tone as he answered.

“You sound as pleased as ever to hear from me, dear brother,” Mycroft’s drawl replied. “Calling to check up on you. Have you done your coursework?”

“Of course,” Sherlock snorted. “And next time, check your cameras. Also, stop pretending to care. I know that the only reason you’ve done all this is so not to blemish the Holmes name.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Sherlock...” Sherlock heard the annoyance in Mycroft’s voice and allowed a smirk to fall across his lips.

“Please don’t tell me that there is more you wish to speak about. The length of our conversation is already enough to give me nightmares.”

“You should call Mummy. She gets worried.”

“I’m sure she does,” Sherlock adopted the sarcastic tone he had borrowed off John. _John..._

“There is also a murder case that baffled the police.”

“Like that’s not normal,” the sixteen year old replied, once again sarcastic. “Anyway I saw that in the newspaper. It is so painfully obvious. It was the woman’s ex-husband. Anyone could see that. Now, if that is all I will terminate this call so I can remove one horror from my incredibly boring life.”

“Goodbye, Sherlock. Do try to be careful.”

“Do try to no worry yourself too much, Mycroft. Can’t be good for your health.” With that Sherlock swiftly hung up, quickly putting the phone back into his trouser pocket. He then slouched where he was sitting on the couch, continuing with the coursework. The boring, dull, monotonous work.

Eventually the drug’s effects wore off and it was so tempting to take more. But no. He had to resist. University work done he had more important business to consider. That which required a sharp, clear mind. So no more drugs. He would have to cope with the constant thoughts concerning... the event.

Sherlock stood, a light frown framing his pale face as he moved over to wall above the unused fireplace. This wall was opposite the couch, making it easy for him to gaze upon if needed. Here he had place a rather large board which was now covered in newspaper articles and other useful items concerning the cases he had decided to take aboard. Then there was all the data he had been able to collect about him. James Moriarty, JM. The one who caused all this pain that Sherlock desperately did not want to feel. Made his brain so irritating, constantly talking to him.

There hadn’t been much to find. Even with Mycroft gathering some information (and Mycroft was quite high up in the government). The birth certificate for James Brook stated that he had been born in Ireland, the names of his parents and his date of birth. There wasn’t any useful information there. James’ parents had died when he was young, he had been brought up in an orphanage and all that stuff but that didn’t help Sherlock. He was pretty sure the birth certificate was fake. That Brook wasn’t his surname at birth. Neither was Moriarty, which was obviously some kind of made up criminal name. But still, the only records of Moriarty was of him as James Brook. Sherlock had all his secondary school details, pictures and the like. Nothing more. It seemed that after their little rendezvous at the top of the school Moriarty had disappeared. Just like that. Vanished into thin air. No traces of him at all. No more records. He hadn’t gone to university so Sherlock had no way of tracking him. None at all. Which meant he couldn’t reveal himself to John... No, not until Sherlock was sure it would have no long term affects on him.

While Moriarty was still out there, he was a danger. To Sherlock and John. And there was no way of tracking him. None at all.


	3. The Long Road To Recovery

John pulled on his coat and grabbed the lead, clipping it onto the small black collar around Gladstone’s neck. With a light smile he led the dog out of the small flat he shared with his fellow student and friend, Mike Stamford, and entered the streets of London. His current home was rather close to the university but not halls of residence. Which suited John just find. His year staying there had been... hell to say the least. It was hard keeping a dog in there. And he wouldn’t give up Gladstone for the world.

A bitter breeze chilled the air as John strode purposefully towards his destination. The cemetery, graveyard, whatever you wished to call it. He visited His grave every Sunday. Sometimes brought flowers, sometimes didn’t. Always said a few words to Him, though. As if He could hear them. Both John’s mother and therapist said that he should stop going. That he had to move on sooner or later. That going to the grave would make him worse. John didn’t care. It was the only thing left of Him. All he had. That and Gladstone.

The walk there was solemn. Gladstone only occasionally stopped John to sniff at lampposts, peeing on a few. Soon they reached the place. The dog trotted at John’s heels, happily sitting when the command was given. John dropped the lead so that he could crouch down in front of the grave. It was made of black marble with words in gold writing.

_Sherlock Holmes_

_Genius and Great Friend_

_The Only Consulting Detective in the World_

Mycroft had consulted John on what words should be engraved. It pained John just to look. He was better now than he had been a year ago, when he first got Gladstone. The dog helped. Gave him someone to talk to. Since then he had picked up his marks and truly concentrated on his studies. Was back to being a top student with a stunning career as a Doctor ahead of him. He had made a few friends, one of which was Mike. He still saw Lestrade. Maybe every month or so the two of them would go to a pub to get a drink. He was slowly recovering. But he still couldn’t let go. Wouldn’t.

“Hello...” John’s voice was quiet as he spoke the words to the grave. “It’s been one year and a half, you know. The event doesn’t seem so long ago. The last time we kissed, though, that feels like eons ago. I miss you. So much. Every day I wake with a new pain, knowing that you’re not there. Gladstone helps.” At his name the dog barked slightly, scurrying over to John and snuggling into the twenty year old. “Mum says I should stop visiting. I can’t. This is all I have left that’s you. It’s not even that. I wish you were still alive. We had a future together, you know. I didn’t care about all that happened. It wasn’t true. I don’t believe it was true. Your name would have cleared. You could have done what you always wanted, be a Consulting Detective. And I would be your sidekick and doctor.” John wiped away the tears that began to flow from his deep blue eyes. “Why did you throw it all away? That’s one thing I will never understand. I loved you. I still love you. Please, just, come back. I know I asked it many times. Every week for the past year and a half. But... Don’t be dead. Just don’t.” John allowed the tears to stream down his cheeks, hugging Gladstone to him. The crying was filled with a hollow sense of grief. He often just felt numb now. Emotionless when it came to Him. Nightmares still plagued John’s sleep but he pretended otherwise when around people. He tried not to cry. Like it was disrespecting Him, who had hated all emotion. But sometimes John just needed a good cry. Now was the time.

He slowly stood, releasing Gladstone from his arms and holding the lead. It was time to leave. He had nothing more to say and if he stayed any longer... It was just too painful. It still hurt. He had been dead for years yet John still held onto the hope that He was alive. Because He was, had been, a genius. Had ulterior motives. Deep down, though, John knew that it was unlikely.

John was nearly back at the flat when his phone starting ringing, a rather annoying tune. He scowled slightly as he pulled his phone out of his pocket and answered the call.

“Hello?”

“Hey, John, how you doing?”

“Greg! You changed your number. I’m fine.” John was glad that Lestrade hadn’t phoned earlier when he was all choked up from crying.

“Yep, got a new phone. I was wondering if you wanted to meet up today. You know it’s my twenty first birthday soon so I thought you might like to go get some drinks and the like. Sound good?”

“Yeh,” John smiled ever so slightly. “What time?”

“Eight, usual place?”

“Okay. See you then.” John hung up and headed into his flat.

John stuffed his hands into his pockets as he entered the pub where he always met Lestrade. It was as crowded as normal, the crowd varying in ages. All were drinking but few were drunk. Yet. John slipped past the full tables before finding Lestrade sitting at the bar. The slightly older boy grinned at John’s approach, dark eyes shining.

“John! Good to see you! How’s the doctor training?”

“Same as ever,” John replied as he sat down and ordered a beer. “You getting closer to becoming a DI?”

“Slowly but surely,” Lestrade shrugged slightly, glancing around the building. “There are some good looking ladies here; maybe we could hook you up. Or men if you prefer...” John shook his head vehemently with a slight groan. Five minutes into their meeting and Lestrade was already attempting to get John to get together with someone. John didn’t want to. The only person he wanted was Him. But He was dead so... John would be fine with no one, thank you very much.

“I’d rather not, Greg. You know I don’t want to,” John retorted stiffly, running a hand through his hair.

“If you’re sure...” Lestrade frowned slightly but didn’t push further. He changed the topic and soon the two were deep in conversation about football. John let his eyes roam as they talked, flickering between the many people. One man caught his attention. This man was sitting in a corner alone. He had a glass of beer in front of him that was untouched and didn’t really seem to be doing anything. Apart from observing. His clothes were normal if covering. John thought he caught sight of a blue scarf under it all before the man met his stare.

Those eyes. There was definitely more than one colour in them. They were like... His. John tore his gaze away. No. It was just his mind playing tricks on him. Nobody had eyes like that. Apart from Him. Who was dead. John was just imagining things.

He just _wanted_ Him to be alive.


	4. To Want Things You Cannot Have

The suspect was blissfully unaware of his presence, chatting with friends and drinking copious amounts. Sherlock let a slight smirk fall across his pale lips. It wasn’t like the suspect would recognise him. After all, Sherlock had put on a copious disguise. So not to be recognised by _anyone_. His coat was dark and pulled around his whole body. A completely different style from the one he normally wore. Underneath it was a hoody, a thing he normally disliked but came in handy here. The hood was used to cover his hair and shadow his face. His trousers were jeans. Normally looking attire and far from what Sherlock preferred.

Anything to gather more information on the suspect. Who was most definitely the perpetrator of the crime Sherlock was investigating. In the past year Sherlock had continued to poke his nose into police business and eventually grew rather infamous for his incredibly deduction skills. Now he was contacted by normal people, through his blog, for help. Also by the police when they were stuck. Which was most of the time.

He truly was on his way to be a consulting detective. Like what was written on his grave... No, don’t think about that. Focus. He had to concentrate on the task at hand. The man he was studying was a crafty one. Good at covering his footsteps. But he wasn’t too clever for Sherlock. No, Sherlock would figure a way to convict him.

The suspect was well on his way to a drunken state. His speaking was easily heard by Sherlock but frustratingly he hadn’t let anything slip. Not yet. One of his friends hadn’t touched a drop of alcohol, though, and kept on glancing about nervously in an almost suspicious manner. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and frowned slightly. He would have to keep his eyes on that one.

The door opened did not catch Sherlock’s eye. It was the man that walked in that did. Twenty years of age. Sandy blond hair already touched grey. Slightly tanned skin. Baggy wool jumper and jeans; casual attire. Deep blue eyes filled with a hollow look... Grief? Had a dog. Most likely a bull dog, not a newborn puppy but not yet an adult.

John.

Sherlock’s eyes followed the handsome man as he proceeded to the bar, greeted by another familiar face. Lestrade. He too was twenty and beginning to grey. Still training to be a detective inspector, Sherlock assumed. There was a large chance that they would cross paths sooner or later. Sherlock hoped it would be later.

He forced his eyes away from the two men and back to the target. Concentrate! He had to concentrate if he was going to fully gather all the facts of the case. But he couldn’t stop his eyes from flickering over to John. Sucking in the perfect person so close in proximity yet unapproachable. It truly was torture to see him within reach knowing they could not meet. Not yet.

Lestrade disappeared a bit later, leaving John on his own. The short man surveyed the room before glancing at Sherlock, who noted that he glanced down to where there was a tiny amount of his blue scarf showing. Darn he shouldn’t have worn that. It was a liability. He felt the urge to glare but resisted. That would only further convince John that what he was seeing was real. Let John think it was his imagination.

Then their gazes met. Damn John still had eyes that Sherlock could get lost in. Such a brilliant blue... Sherlock couldn’t look away. Luckily John did so first. This gave Sherlock a chance to turn his head away, cheeks hot. Damn John looked so good. Sherlock missed him so much. Wanted to run up and hug him, kiss him. But he couldn’t.

Sherlock’s gaze flickered back to where the suspect was... well, were he had been. Now there was only an empty chair. Either they had suspected that they were being watched or just decided to get home. Sherlock though it was the former. It was much too early to leave a pub.

Silently cursing, Sherlock rose and silently left the place. Now he had to find them again! Get back on their trail... what a nuisance. Sherlock glanced about the dimly lit street with narrowed eyes. Kept his ears wide open for any signs of sound. He cautiously crept down the closest back alley and was enveloped by shadows lit by the lights of the main street, the stars and the crescent moon. Sherlock glanced about. Completely focused.

Yes, they had certainly come down here. The dirt on the ground had been slightly disturbed. Sherlock continued at a swifter pace, following a near invisible trail. The sound of loud voices hit his ears suddenly and then they came into sight. There were four men; three drunk and one not. The sober one being the one who had continually glanced about. Sherlock was beginning to change his mind as to who the perpetrator of the crime was.

Sherlock proceeded to approach, hand going to the gun in his pocket. There was a possibility he may need it. Slowly, quietly. They weren’t in a rush to get anywhere.

“Hey, what are you doing following us?!” One of the drunks had turned around when he stumbled, noticing Sherlock with unfocused eyes. Sherlock mentally cursed. He hadn’t been careful enough. The sober one looked at him suspiciously, before his eyes widened as he recognised Sherlock as a man from the bar. In an instance he was off, darting down the street.

Sherlock tore after him, pulling his gun and so he had it at the ready. He barged past the drunks and shot down after the fleeing man. He knew London like the back of his hand having spent much of his childhood slipping away to explore the city. Still, the man he was chasing was surprisingly fast and knew London just as well. Sherlock managed to keep him in sight as they ran down the alleys, entering onto the main street. The place bustled with people and taxis, just making Sherlock’s job harder. His eyes followed the man as he pushed through the people in that direction.

Then, Sherlock stopped. Damn. The man had got into a taxi. There was no way Sherlock could follow him now. At least he knew who it was, though. But it still felt like a failure.

All because he had seen John.


	5. It's Time To Let Go, Move On

Stupid upcoming exam... John let a deep frown mar his face as he desperately scribbled notes from his other notes, trying to make them more ordered. Easier to revise from. He been in university for over two and a half years now. Was over half way there. That gave him a sense of achievement. He had surprised thus far. Without Him.

In fact, John had put Him out of his mind for a while. Visited His grave only once a month. To pay respects to the day. He no longer held the hope that He was still alive. It had been too long. John would have known something by now. So John had moved on. In most ways. Concentrated on his studies and worked towards becoming a doctor. Made his plans for the future. He had already decided that he was going to go into the army after university. Then he would be doing what his father had always wanted; serving the country.

But he needed to get a goddamn good grade to do it which meant loads of studying. John thought that after his A levels he would be free from this kind of thing. Seemed he was wrong. He was making his notes in the university library unable to do so in his flat due to some party that the room above was having. A bit of a nuisance but at least the library was quiet. It was small and rarely used, meaning that it was pretty much only John there. He liked it. Spending time alone. He barely got that luxury anymore. Not with Mike has his flatmate. There always seemed to be one person or another who was one their course around. And when there wasn’t Lestrade was badgering him to meet up. John actually kind of liked it... Surprisingly. Made everything feel more normal. Like he was just your typical student.

“Hey, mind if I sit here?” John glanced up to see a rather pretty girl asking to sit next to him. He shrugged slightly.

“Sure.” She smiled at him and sat down, dumping her books. Huh, they were the same as his. Must be on the same course... why hadn’t John noticed her before. After all she had a sort of beauty about her. Wow... John hadn’t thought of girls as pretty for years. Not since the event. But she was. She certainly was. And training to be a doctor or a nurse or something. Obviously smart.

“I’m Sarah,” she offered her name as she reorganised her books, pulling some neat notes out from her ring binder.

“John,” John replied with a smile. Why hadn’t he known of her existence before? Well... he guessed that he hadn’t really paid attention to anyone on his course. Least of all the girls.

“Nice to meet you, John,” Sarah scribbled something on a piece of paper. “I haven’t seen you around much... I’m assuming you’re on my course?”

John nodded. “I tend to avoid most of the social gatherings that take place.” He gave a shrug about that. “I have my reasons.”

“I won’t intrude upon them,” Sarah replied. “So how is your revision going? The exam is going to be pretty important.”

“It’s going well enough. I had hoped there would be no more studying after my A levels.”

“Me too!” Sarah laughed lightly. “But some things were not meant to be.”

The two of them chatted rather amiably as they worked. John’s mood seriously brightened though he didn’t get much studying done. Sarah was quite a wonderful person on top of her good looks. Second only to one. And He was dead. John had to move on, some time or another. This was the only way he hadn’t.

Relationships. Like proper relationships. And after only one conversation he knew he liked Sarah. He didn’t know if the feeling was mutual. But it was a step forward. A rather large step forward, in fact. John had felt like he had been betraying Him by even just considering another relationship. That feeling had died down so it was just a dull nagging at the back of his brain. His heart still hadn’t fully recovered... but maybe it wouldn’t mend by itself.

“John?” John blinked, deep blue eyes darting to Sarah. He’d completely missed what she had been saying.

“Oh, sorry, I got distracted,” he gave her a weak smile.

“Its fine,” Sarah’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “I was asking if you wanted to go somewhere to get a bite to eat. I’m rather hungry and it’s getting a bit late to study.”

“Of course!” John replied almost instantly. Well that sorted one of his doubts. She was definitely as interested as he was. Nice to know that his years single hadn’t affected his flirting skills. Not that he had been flirting. No, definitely not. It was just his devilishly good looks that lured her in.

He had always said that John looked good. Was perfect. So John guessed that he did look half decent. Must be half decent to get someone like Him. Who he had to stop thinking about. Really had to. There was no point in feeling guilty. He was dead! Most certainly dead and there was no evidence showing otherwise.

Yes, getting food with Sarah would be nice. Take his mind off things.

“You know anywhere decent?” John asked as they collected their books.

“There’s this nice little fish and chip shop,” Sarah replied with a shrug. “Cheap but good.”

“Sounds perfect.” The two of them left the library together, heading out into the already dark streets of London. The fish and chip shop was reasonably close and indeed held decent food contrary to its grubby interior. Sarah and John sat at a small two person table in the corner, mostly hidden from view from those that sat around them.

“You share a flat with Mike, don’t you?” Sarah commented as she daintily ait her fish.

“How did you know?” John mumbled through the chips he was stuffing into his mouth.

“Oh, I’ve talked to Mike a few times,” Sarah replied vaguely.

“He’s never mentioned you. And he loves to talk about all the people he knows.”

“Okay, maybe only once. And you are on my course. I like to know who everyone is,” Sarah defended herself which caused a light laugh to emerge from John’s lips.

“I have to say I haven’t talk to many of the people on our course or got to know them.”

“You should of. I would have liked to talk to you early. You’re nice, John. Very nice.” Was Sarah blushing? John only just realised that they had both leaned further in over the table. Faces close. Lips... almost touching.

“You’re nice too.” John didn’t get to say much before they kissed. It was a light kiss. But nice. Very nice. John’s second best first kiss. After the one with Him...


	6. Living With The Mistakes We've Made

Sherlock let a smirk fall across as he disabled the last of Mycroft’s cameras that were ‘hidden’ about the small flat. He estimated that he would have maybe... fifteen minutes. Maximum. More than enough time to allow him to do what he planned.

To forget. He wanted to forget the information he had discovered. The person who it was about, the person who caused the pain. Who he had sacrificed everything for. He wanted to forget. He wished his mind would just shut up! The constant nagging, suspicions, deductions, he wanted everything to go away! To go away and leave him be.

A grim look crossed his pale face as he flopped down on the sofa. A long arm reached for one of the syringes he had place on the table, carefully filling it with the substance he needed. Taking a deep breath Sherlock pushed up his sleeve and held it above his slim arm. Pushed the point in and injected. He exhaled, his mind only just beginning to fog over. A sort of haze that helped him ignore its constant workings. But he needed more. He _needed_ to forget. So he would take another. Just one more.

“All the flat cameras have been disabled, sir.” Mycroft looked up at his PA with narrowed eyes. Concern flashed through his mind but he didn’t allow it to show. Sherlock removing or disabling the cameras could only be bad. It was part of their agreement and Mycroft had threatened to make him move in with him if he didn’t comply.

It was because of the news. Mycroft knew it was. Which made him more worried. Mycroft, of course, knew how it would affect Sherlock. He should have told his little brother as soon as his informant had told him of John... moving on you could say. Shouldn’t have left Sherlock alone. The results could be disastrous. He knew how badly Sherlock dealt with emotions. He was so used to not having them.

“Get the car ready and call some medics... we may need them,” Mycroft replied grimly.

It was only ten minutes later that he entered the dingy flat Sherlock owned flanked by two medics and a bodyguard. In case Sherlock was conscious and offered any resistance. The sight that greeted him was one he never wished to see again. Sherlock was slumped across his sofa, limp. A needle had fallen to the ground from his hand and his pushed up sleeve showed recent puncture marks. He was unconscious but breathing, thankfully. The medics instantly rushed over, taking a pulse and putting him into the recovery system.

“We need an ambulance. Now.”

Mycroft sat by Sherlock’s bed in the hospital until the young man woke up. He looked so frail and vulnerable just lying there, hooked up to an IV and a few devices. Mycroft sometimes forgot that he was only eighteen, only just truly venturing into adulthood. Of course the news that John was seeing someone else would hit him hard. He still loved John. Mycroft didn’t pretend to understand why, he like Sherlock tried to keep emotions out of his life. But Sherlock had been touched by John. He really had no one but himself to blame, though. After all John Watson was under the impression that Sherlock was dead.

But still, Mycroft should have done something. Protected Sherlock. Though he was loathe to admit it Mycroft cared for his little brother. Wanted to protect him. It was difficult, especially with one such as Sherlock. And he had failed so many times. So many times.

“Mycroft?” Sherlock’s many coloured eyes blinked open, unfocused. A wince of pain flashed across his lips as he remembered the events that had landed him in the hospital.

“Why did you do it, Sherlock?” Mycroft’s drawl was more grave than normal, his blue eyes staring into Sherlock’s own.

“I wanted to forget,” Sherlock admitted freely, trying to push away his annoying thoughts. “My mind was quite clear. I only meant to take one dose.”

“Well you took far too much. You know you broke our agreement.” Sherlock made a face at that comment. Trust Mycroft to bring all this back to their stupid agreement. Sure he’d taken down the cameras and pretty much overdosed but why did it matter? He was fine. He would live on. Why did Mycroft have to continue to pretend to care?

“Yeh, so?”

“You’re moving into my house.”

“No.”

“There’s no arguing. I don’t trust you to live on your own. How do I know you won’t do something like this again? You need to regain my trust.”

“You can’t control me; I’m eighteen going on nineteen! I’m an adult now. I don’t want your _trust_.” He spat the last word causing Mycroft to sigh.

“Okay then I’ll give you a choice. Rehab or staying in my house. Take your pick.” Mycroft was immune to the angry glare Sherlock sent his way. You could say it was hate filled, even.

“Fine,” Sherlock grumbled.

“I thought so.”

Sherlock scowled deeply, closing his eyes so he didn’t have to see his brother’s face. He pressed his hands together under his chin and took a deep breath through his nose.

“How long until they let me out of this place?” Sherlock asked after a few moments of silence, his eyes still closed. If there was one place he hated it was hospitals. He utterly detested them. Now he was staying in one. Hopefully for a short period of time.

“Tomorrow,” Mycroft replied with an arched eyebrow.

“Good. Now leave.” Sherlock heard the scraping of a chair being moved back and footsteps receding to the doorway. Good. He needed to be alone. So that he could go to his mind palace and delete the memory of what had happened. All of it.

So he could forget that John was seeing someone else. Had moved on.

Moved on and slipped even further away from Sherlock. 


	7. The Time Flies By

“Definitely just the common flu virus.”  John moved his eyes away from the microscope he had been using to look at the microscopic bacteria on a thin glass slide. Mike stood beside him with narrowed eyes and a slight frown. The two of them worked at St Bartholomew’s hospital every Sunday for the minimum wage. They did various things from running errands to looking at things in a microscope to sitting in on surgery.

“Really? Because the patient didn’t show all the symptoms,” Mike replied as he jotted down some notes.

“Believe me, it’s the common flu,” John smiled slightly, a feeling of success filling his chest.

“As you say,” Mike shrugged. “I’d better go tell Doctor Stone our results. Successful if slightly disappointing.” John rolled his eyes slightly as his friend disappeared out of the small ‘research’ lab. Which basically consisted of a few rows of tables and some microscopes. Not all that much, really.

John let his mind wonder as he waited. He was looking forward to tonight. He was going out with quite a few of the guys on his course to the pub. Hopefully he wouldn’t drink too much thus having to sit through various lectures with a headache. One the bright side, he only had one and a half more years left at university. Then he was a doctor. Sort of. He still had to do quite a few years of doctor experience in a hospital or something. But he would have the title doctor. Doctor John Watson. Had a definite ring to it. He guessed it would be cool to be called doctor by everything. Though it wasn’t why he had chosen to go into medicine.

Mike took his time, returning ten minutes later.

“Doctor Stone gave thanks for the help,” he grinned almost triumphantly. “And it’s six o’clock so that’s our shift over. You want to get a takeaway dinner.”

“Nah,” John replied as they moved out of the research room and towards the cloakroom. “Sorry, I’m going to the pub at seven tonight. I’ll get dinner then. Why don’t you come?”

“Sorry, I’ve got an essay to write for tomorrow.” Mike shrugged apologetically. “I’ll maybe come next time.”

John nodded as he grabbed his coat and pulled it on. Upon entering the corridor a familiar figure caught his eye, walking away from where he was standing with Mike.

“I’ll see you later,” John murmured to his friend before heading after the figure, half running. “Hey, Molly! Molly!” He called skidding to a halt beside the rather short girl. “Long time no see. How are you doing?”

“Oh, hi John,” Molly stammered, deep brown eyes flashing to the ground. “I’m fine. Perfectly fine. Just going back to the morgue.”

“You’re working in the morgue?” John grinned in a friendly manner. “I think Greg mentioned something about that. So you’re still set on becoming a pathologist?”

“Yup,” Molly nodded slightly, tugging at her brown hair as the slowly walked towards her destination. “So... how are things with you?”

“Good, I’m going to the pub tonight with some friends,” John replied.

“Sounds fun...” Molly didn’t sound so sure. But then again she wasn’t exactly the type of person you would expect to go out drinking. “How often do you see Greg?”

“Once a month, maybe. He’s busy with work anyway. Set on becoming a Detective Inspector and all. I’m pretty sure he’ll get there quite easily. He’s made of policeman stuff.”

“Definitely. I don’t see him so often. We keep in contact, though.”

“We three were always close.”

“I heard that Sally joined the police force as well.”

“Really?”

“And Anderson, in forensics.”

“I pity Lestrade,” John chuckled. Molly laughed slightly, though it was a nervous laugh.

“Yeh... John, do you still visit... Sherlock’s grave?”

John suddenly stopped walking, deep blue eyes darting to Molly at her question. He hadn’t truly thought about Him for quite a while now. He still occasionally visited the grave, but only to place some flowers. Nothing more. He no longer spoke to Him as he once had. He was dead. John had dealt with it. He had moved on. Ever since that first date with Sarah He had been on John’s mind less and less. The relationship he had had with Sarah had only lasted two months or so but it had been enough to stop John from missing Him so much. Let him know that there were other people out there that he could like as more than friends. He had gone out with numerous girls in the past year. No men, though. That would be a step too far. Yes he had moved on, but even after three and a half years he wouldn’t forget.

He no longer had nightmares, though. Which was a good thing.

“Occasionally,” John finally answered. “Why are you asking?” He was curious to know why she had suddenly put forward that question for no obvious reason.

“Oh... no reason,” Molly stammered, pushing open a door. “This is me. I’d better go. See you sometime, John.” With that she scurried inside. John arched an eyebrow, a light frown framing his lips. He was suspicious now. Molly was hiding something. He just wasn’t sure what.


	8. I Have To Keep Holding On

Sherlock did not understand how the police had not captured this man earlier. He was so insatiably stupid. It just frustrated Sherlock. How was it possible for one such as him to perform such intricate murders? Ones that Sherlock had been asked to help with. It had even baffled Sherlock for a few days. He didn’t understand why. One look at the man and you could tell that he was rather stupid. Not normal person stupid. Worse than that. And because of the police’s incompetence Sherlock was now being forced to contain him himself. By fighting him in some abandoned flat.

Damn those police.

Sherlock ducked another blow, darting out of the way. The man facing him was rather large. If he was going to murder someone you would expect him to go for strangling them to death not poison. Yet he was quite clearly the murderer. Sherlock was never wrong. Not in things like this.

Sherlock darted to the side, avoiding yet another punch before spinning in for a kick of his own. He aimed for the knees in an attempt to knock the larger man over. His plan didn’t exact work out as he had wanted it too. Unfortunately. The man grabbed Sherlock when he got near, throwing him as if he was a sack of flour. Sherlock crashed against the wall, landing in a crumpled pile. He forced himself up, breath coming out in ragged gasps. That had hurt. Quite a lot. He narrowed his eyes, preparing to dodge yet more attacks. Try to outlast him before the police came. Unfortunately, there was one variable he had failed to take note of.

Sherlock was facing down a gun. As stupid as his opponent was Sherlock had no doubts about whether he could use it or not. And he had no risk to lose his life by testing the man’s aim through making a run for it. No, he couldn’t die. Not properly. He had to keep going and to stay strong. Think about John. His John. Only one and a half years before they could be together again. He had to live for that moment. So he was not going to make any risky moves.

“Think about what you are doing before pulling the trigger,” Sherlock spoke slowly. Reasoning wasn’t exactly one of his strong points but he was going to try. “You’ve already murdered three people. Adding another to that list will only make it worse.”

“Can’t prove I murdered them,” the man growled, gun pointing steadily at Sherlock.

“Well if they cannot prove that they will be able to prove this murder.” Sherlock kept an emotionless mask over his face. It was all too easy to wear. After all he was well practiced in the art of hiding feelings. And not feeling them.

A sudden loud banging on the door followed by the shouts of “open up, it’s the police!” Well it was about time that they got here. Sherlock had sent them the address ages ago along with the identity of the murderer.

Who was unfortunately panicking. If Sherlock didn’t have such solid evidence he would be convinced that there was a flaw in his logic somewhere along the road (which did happen, which he hated to admit). Sherlock saw the shot before it came, managing to sort of leap to the right. It was an ungraceful action but was rewarded with him being shot in the left arm rather than the heart. Overall a good bargain is Sherlock’s opinion.

Luckily the police barged down the door before the man got another shot in. They swarmed in, taking him quite easily by force. They all wore bulletproof vests; about one of the only half intelligent things that the police did. At all.

Outside there were a few police cars and one ambulance. They had obviously expected Sherlock, or the murderer, to be in quite a bad way. Sherlock frowned as the murderer was led towards a police car, shrugging off those that were trying to get him to the ambulance. He moved away from them before they could force him anywhere, striding over to the detective inspector in charge who now had the murderer handcuffed and about to be taken away.

“I need to ask him one question.”

The DI pretty much glared at Sherlock. “You will have to wait until the court case, Mr Holmes.”

“I caught him for you, remember. The least you can do is allow me this one question.”

“Fine.” Sherlock smirked when he got the answer he was looking forward. His many coloured eyes were narrowed as he rounded on the murderer, ignoring the blood sluggishly escaping from the wound on his arm.

“Who do you work for?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” the murderer snarled.

“You know perfectly well. You’re far too stupid to have thought up the murder yourself. Who do you work for?”

“No one.”

“Who do you work for?! Tell me or I will apply force. Believe me, I do not care I get arrested.”

“He calls himself... Moriarty.” The word washed over Sherlock. No. That couldn’t be right. He hadn’t heard of Moriarty for ages now. It had been as if he had disappeared off the face of the earth. And now, finally, he was making a reappearance. Stepping back onto the stage. Seemed things were going to get a little more interesting. Sherlock just hoped that Moriarty didn’t know that he hadn’t actually died. That would complicate things just a little. But then again, Sherlock loved complications. Made everything a bit more fun. Not boring.

Sherlock’s mind spun, working quickly and deep in thought. He didn’t notice as he was lead over to the ambulance to get his wound treated. He didn’t hear them telling him that it was serious and he would still be able to use his arm. He ignored the blanket they put around him for ‘shock.’ They asked him if they could call anyone to come collect him to which he just gave a glare. He was nineteen going on twenty! He didn’t need anyone to look after him. Especially if they were his relatives. Or Mycroft. After what Mycroft called the drug incident just over a year ago Sherlock had been forced to live with his older brother. Who still didn’t trust him. It had been over a year! And Sherlock was clean now. Sure he still smoked but he no longer turned to drugs. Well... most of the time he didn’t. He just wanted to go back to having his own flat. Which he was sure would happen soon. There was no way Mycroft could put up with his presence any longer.

But it seemed like everything had taken a step forward in that one night. Moriarty was in England, that much was for certain. And he was helping people with crimes much like he had helped people cause trouble in school. He and Sherlock were still very much alike. Except where Sherlock was a consulting detective Moriarty was a consulting criminal. The only ones in the world.


	9. A Whole Future Lies Ahead

John sat with his old, rather battered laptop sitting on his lap unsure what to write. He was trying to write his CV to apply to various hospitals. So he could do his hospital training and the like. But it just didn’t seem right. He didn’t know what to write and he wasn’t even sure if there were any hospitals he wanted to apply to. There was a dull ache in his heart each time he typed a word. He was applying to the wrong places.

No, he knew where he should go. Well more specifically what he should get into. He hadn’t really considered it since he was living with his parents and constantly finding information slips here and there, purposefully left lying about by his dad. His dad who had died in service in Afghanistan only a week ago. It had been a massive blow to John. He had not always seen eye to eye with his dad but they had still been close. Now he was gone. John wanted to honour his memory. Do what he would have wanted. Help in the battle that his dad had died fighting. And he could use his medical skills. The army needed doctors as well.

It wasn’t like he had anything, anyone, to hold him back. That one truly special person in his life was dead. Had been dead for four and a half years. John had moved on long ago and though he had many girlfriends none were quite so special. He would always be the one. John accepted that now. So he might as well join the army. Do a great service to his country. Help even more than he would if he was just a doctor in a normal hospital. Sure, he would be soldier and have to fight in a proper war but... It was what his dad had always wanted.

With a light frown John began to research how to join the army. It really wasn’t all that hard. Even as a doctor he’d still have to go through all the normal training and begin as a lowly private, just with the additional features of being able to give other soldiers medical help. He wouldn’t be going to train until summer when his medical course was finished. It was easy to sign up. Only took John about an hour to get all the details worked out.

John spent the rest of the evening studying in his rather small room. He sat at his desk, papers spread out everywhere as he took notes. The final exams were coming up soon and he had to be prepared. He still shared a flat with Mike but the other young man didn’t disturb him. He was undoubtedly studying hard as well. John hadn’t been out much the past week. What with his dad’s death and all the revision. He hadn’t had much contact with Molly and Lestrade recently. Molly had been avoiding him and Lestrade had properly begun work in the police force, working hard on his way to the rank of detective inspector. John was sure he would get it within a few years. At most.

John retired for the night at around eleven o’clock, getting changed and slipping into bed completely exhausted. Gladstone padded into the room and hopped up onto the bed only five minutes later. The dog curled up next to John, beginning to snore pretty quickly. John chuckled lightly, a smile on his lips. Having Gladstone sleeping next to him was comforting. Helped him get to sleep.

John shut his eyes and allowed the dark wave of sleep to carry him.

He was walking. Slowly moving away from the courts where he had played his tennis match. John knew what was coming. Knew the events that were about to unfold. He wanted to stop them. Wanted to scream. He hadn’t seen this event for years. Not since he had moved on. He thought he was past all this.

But it seemed he wasn’t. He walked towards the school building, body moving on autopilot. John couldn’t control his own body. He seemed almost detached from it, flickering between seeing through his own eyes and from above. He watched the phone call with an increasingly sick feeling. His viewpoint changed again. He was watching in horror as He fell.

He was seeing it again. What he had not seen for at least two years. The fall. His suicide. John couldn’t take it. He wanted to look away. He so desperately wanted to look away.

“Sherlock!” He heard himself scream as the beautiful sixteen year old stepped off the building. There was a wild flailing of long limbs before the boy hit the floor with a sickening crunch. No. Not again. He was dead. John knew that He was dead. He had been for four and a half years. Why must his mind torture him so?

Slowly John approached the body, fresh grief clouding his mind. He felt more in control of his body. Sherlock’s dead colourful eyes bore into him. Watching him. Accusingly.

Then a gunshot rung through the air, loud and clear. John spun around and a strangled cry left his throat. Before him his dad slumped to the ground, blood welling from a gun hole in his chest. John ran forward, grabbing his dad to support him before he fell.

“No, dad, it’s alright,” John cried as his dad gripped onto him tightly, blood continuing to pour out of the wound. “You won’t die. I’ll save you.” Yet he knew it was helpless as he attempted to staunch the blood flow. His dad was a week dead. This was just a dream. A horribly real dream.

“Son,” his dad crouched, eyes flickering shut. “You could have saved me. If you had joined the army earlier you could have saved me.”

Then he was falling.

John woke suddenly in cold sweat. His breathing was heavy and he just hoped he hadn’t cried out during the nightmare. Suddenly everything was fresh in his mind. The memories of that terrible day. Almost five years ago. He missed Him. He still did. And He was dead. That was that.

John didn’t get another drop of sleep that night. He just lay and thought. Thought about all the people he had lost.


	10. So Close Yet So Far

It was almost time. The torture he had been living would soon be over. Only half a year until John completed his course. Until he became a doctor. Then Sherlock could reveal himself. Once again be with his John. Sherlock could be alive, well and truly. Because the last four and a half years... He had only been living a half life. He had been a shadow. He couldn't reveal himself to anyone. Not when there was the risk of Moriarty finding out that he hadn't actually taken his life. That he hadn't died jumping from the school building.

The memories were still painful. Not fresh, but painful. A constant reminder of what Sherlock had lost. John. But soon he would have him back. It was almost time. John would be at a stage in his life where Moriarty could no longer ruin his prospects. Sherlock was annoyed that he had been unable to take down who he liked to think of his nemesis. He had traced a few criminals in Moriarty's web, though, and brought them to justice. But that did not help Sherlock sleep at night. No, Moriarty was still out there. Out there and dangerous. Incredibly so.

Sherlock frowned as he walked over to the wall he had covered in information on Moriarty and also the cases he took interest in. It was a habit he had had to put aside while staying in Mycroft's house. Ugh, those two or so years had been horrible. Finally Sherlock had proved to his irritating older brother that he was clean, no longer on drugs. Responsible enough to live on his own. After all he was twenty. Twenty one in just under a month. The joys of birthdays. Sherlock remembered his sixteenth birthday. It truly had been a sweet sixteenth. The only decent one he had ever had, actually. Going out with John for dinner. Getting presents. He still had the purple shirt that John had given him. It supposedly suited him. Quite well. Sherlock wasn't so sure. But if John had said so then it must be true.

Sherlock sighed, scraping a hand through his black curls. His eyes raked over the information he had. There was no way to tell where Moriarty was or who else was working for him. Which criminal's strings he would pull next to perform some form of crime. Sherlock just couldn't tell. It frustrated him. Because he liked knowing everything. He hated it when he was clueless. He felt so... helpless in this. He generally liked to be in control. And normally it was fine. He was smarter than everyone so he always knew every detail. Apart from when Moriarty was involved.

But Sherlock liked to think that he was one step ahead. Because Moriarty didn't even know he was alive. He would soon, though. In half a year. When Sherlock could see John again...

Sherlock kicked his seat in frustration. He had thought it would be simple! Half a year had passed and John, or should he say Doctor Watson, had completed his course. Sherlock should have been able to tell John that he was still alive ages ago! But the young man had quite annoyingly gone to stay with his mother since leaving university. Sherlock couldn't exactly go and knock at Mrs Watson's house. What would he say? "Hello, I was your son's boyfriend but I jumped off a building to fake my death. Is John home, by any chance?" No that definitely would not work. Damn, why couldn't it just be so much simpler. Sherlock should have been able to think around it. But John was never alone. Never. When he wasn't with his mother he was with a few of his friends from university. They had had a party for him one night. Sherlock found that curious. Like he was leaving.

Maybe John was going to work in a hospital in a different city or town. If that was the case then Sherlock could trail him there. Maybe even move. Anything it would take to get his John back. He just hoped he would hurry up about it. Because at the moment Sherlock was being driven sick by impatience. His heart was twisting itself into knots as it waited in tense anticipation. He had no idea how John would react. But it wouldn't be good. Not at first, even if Sherlock explained why. He couldn't really blame John. After all Sherlock had lead him to believe that he was dead for five years. John may have appeared to move on but... Death is not a thing that can merely be forgotten. And Sherlock was sorry for having inflicted that upon his friend (or boyfriend, if that still stood). But he had to. He couldn't have lived with himself if he had ruined John's life. Though he guessed in a way he still had.

The irritating beeping that was his phone interrupted his thoughts. He pulled it out of his trouser pocket and scowled as it announced who the call was from on the bright screen.

"What do you want, Mycroft? I am not in the mood for your pretend worrying," Sherlock snapped as he answered. He knew that if he didn't his annoying older brother would pay him a visit. And that would be a worse scenario than talking on the phone. Not that he wanted to participate in that as it was.

"Nice to speak to you too, dear brother," Mycroft's drawl replied.  "But I am not calling to listen to your terribly infant insults. I think you will have some interest in what I have to say."

"I doubt it."

"It concerns John." Sherlock blinked, a wide frown crossing his lips. John? What did Mycroft have to say about John.. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good. But Mycroft had caught his attention. He wanted to know what Mycroft knew.

"I'm listening."

"Well, this may be hard for you to hear. After all you have grown rather attached to him..."

"Just get on with it."

"Dr Watson is leaving to join the army tomorrow. He is going to train down in Scotland."

"What!" Sherlock regretted his outburst the moment it left his mouth. It showed Mycroft that he felt something. That he was annoyed, concerned, worried. Emotions. "You cannot be serious."

"I'm afraid I am."

"What time does his train leave? And when?"

"Eight in the morning tomorrow from King's Cross station."

"Thank you." Sherlock quickly hung up. He did not want to hear Mycroft's voice anymore. John was joining the army. No. He couldn't be. Why would he? He could do so much better than that! He couldn't leave for the army. That would mean that all that waiting Sherlock had done, the endless torture, it had all been for nothing. Because in the end he would lose John again.

No. It didn't have to be that way. He would go to the station the next morning. Talk John out of it. He just didn't hope that he was too late...


	11. I Don't Believe It. I can't Believe It.

John's mother cried as he said goodbye to her. He felt a slight stab of guilt which shot pain through his heart. She had already lost a husband to the war and now there was the chance she would lose a son. But John knew it was the right thing. It was what his father would have wanted. He had always pushed John towards the army. Now John was signing up. He had already got what he wanted; he was a Doctor now after all. So he would honour his dad's memory. Serve his country.

John gave his mum a big hug, accepting the kiss on his cheek.

"Stay safe," she whispered tearfully. John nodded in reply.

"When you're on leave I expect a visit." John smiled at Mike's words. He had moved away from his mother to say his goodbyes to the man who had been his best friend for the past four or so years.

"I'll try," John replied. "No guarantees."

"Don't worry. Just don't get yourself killed."

"I don't plan to." John bent down, scratching Gladstone gently between the ears. The dog sat obediently beside Mike who held his leash. Mike had promised to look after him until he could find a better home. John hoped Gladstone was happy wherever he went. John loved the dog to pieces. He had got him through some hard times. "Anyway, this is goodbye. I need to get on the train."

"Bye. Stay safe." John smiled at his friend before heading over to the train. It left in about five minutes so if he didn't get a move on he'd have to wait for the next one. That was the last thing he wanted. All he was bringing with him was a very small battered suitcase. Almost everything would be provided.

"John!" John heard his name called as he stepped up onto the train. The voice was familiar, a deep baritone. A voice he had only heard in dreams recently. No... it was just his imagination. There was nobody calling his name. Least of all Him. He was dead. John shook his head slightly and moved into the carriage. He plopped himself down at a window seat with a table in front of him and put his suitcase in front of him. He frowned slightly, standing to open the window before sitting again. He lost himself in his thoughts, his mental preparation. He would be leaving soon. Then that would be it. His life would be completely changed. Nothing like what he was used to.

"John!" It was the same voice. John turned his head sharply to look out the window. A light gasp escaped his lips as shock clouded his mind. No. It was his imagination. There was no way that He was running towards the train. But then how could it be fake. He couldn't exactly dream it up. Not in that much detail. Not the black curls, the many coloured eyes, the long black coat and blue striped scarf. Not the perfect being that had shouted his name. Sherlock.

John stood suddenly, moving away from his chair. As fast as he could he got to the aisle. Began moving back towards the door. He had to get off. He could catch the next train. He had to talk to Sherlock.

After he had punched him, of course. He would talk after that.

John felt his heart drop as a slight motion jerked him forward. Then the train was moving away, increasing speed so that the people at the station became a blur. No. He hadn't managed to get off. John moved back to his chair and collapsed with a slight huff.

It was hard to believe. Barely registering in his mind. Sherlock was alive. How? John had seen his body lying on the ground after he jumped, covered in blood. So much blood. For the first two years he had dared to hope that it had been a fake. That Sherlock had gotten out of it. After all, he was a genius. But gradually that hoped disappeared until it died altogether. Now he was back. He was actually back.

John was staring at his phone when it began to ring. Unknown number. But it could only be one person. John answered quickly.

"Hello, John Watson speaking."

"John-" John cut him off before he could say anything else. Entice him with words in that beautifully deep voice.

"You fucking bastard. How could you do that to me?! I thought you were dead. I thought you were fucking dead, Sherlock. And now you appear out of the blue. It may be all well and good for you but I had to survive five fucking years thinking that you were dead. Fuck you. I don't need any of your explanations. You were _dead._ "

"John, please, just listen for a moment."

"I don't want to listen, Sherlock. You can't just expect to come back into my life and change everything. You pretended to die. You could have told me!"

"John..." Sherlock's voice was... sad? Well whoopee seemed the Sociopath felt something. "He threatened you. James Moriarty, JM, threatened you. He was going to ruin your life, John. Your career, everything. You wouldn't have been able to become a doctor. Everything you wanted, lost. Because of me. I had to jump, John. I couldn't do that to you. That's why I didn't reveal myself until now. He's still out there. He would have got you kicked out of university. But now you're a Doctor and you're safe."

John was speechless for a moment. He let the words sink in. "Well... Eh, that explains some things. But I can't just forgive you. You could have told me. I would have quite happily had my dreams ruined if it meant a life with you. We could have sorted it out. I loved you, Sherlock. I loved you so much that it hurt. Have you ever seen the one closest to you dead before you? Because I did. I loved you. Now I'm not so sure."

"John... Please. Just think things over. Don't join the army yet. Come back. Please."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. But this is what I have to do. My dad would have wanted it. I can't just drop everything for you. I loved you but... I can't think any further on it right now. I need time. Maybe when I come back from the army we can talk. But I'm going to serve my country. And... I've moved on. Maybe you should too."

"John..."

"Goodbye Sherlock." John hung up, brushing away the falling tears. He still loved Sherlock. He knew deep down in his heart that he did. But he wasn't ready to admit it. No, for now he would continue on his chosen course of action. Sherlock wouldn't change that.

John's phone buzzed and a text popped up. He frowned as he checked it.

_I'm sorry -SH_


	12. Losing Someone A Second Time

He had lost him. Sherlock couldn't believe it. He had lost him. Again. It was like falling all over again. He couldn't be with John. It took a long time to sink in, gradually penetrating the thick barrier around his mind. He felt something he had no wish to feel. Grief? Depression? He wasn't sure exactly. But John had gone off to join the army. Where he could get killed. What would he do if John died in action? Or went missing? He didn't think he could continue. Five years without John had been hard enough. Now he would have to last even longer.

John had said that he had loved Sherlock. But that he wasn't sure anymore. That he had moved on and Sherlock should too. But Sherlock didn't want to move on. He still loved (if that was what you would call that emotion) John! That was why he had jumped in the first place. Why couldn't John just see. And if he died in battle... Sherlock would not be able to forgive himself. Because it would be his fault. His faked death was part of what pushed John towards making this decision. Sherlock could just tell. If only he had arrived minutes earlier. If only John had turned around the first time Sherlock called around. There were so many chances, so many times everything could have been recovered. Yet it had all gone wrong. Now Sherlock truly had to deal with the consequences of his actions five years ago.

True, he could have spoken to John. He could have told him what was going on when he caught onto the fact that JM, Moriarty, was planning his death. Yet he didn't. It hadn't crossed his mind. Sherlock was, had been, so used to depending on himself and himself only. No one else. He wasn't used to help. He wasn't used to _friends._ He hadn't been his whole childhood and he still wasn't. No, he did not have any friends. Not anymore. He had just lost the only one. For a second time. And this time there was a sense of finality to it. Like it was the end. There was no way to salvage their relationship.

Maybe John would find it in his big heart to forgive Sherlock. Sherlock wasn't so sure. Time apart could only increase his anger for John. Sherlock would not be able to convince him how sound his actions had actually been. In his mind, at least. No when John returned, if he ever did, Sherlock doubted that he would want anything to do with him.

Then again it was John. He was the one person Sherlock was unsure about. He couldn't tell what he was going to do. He was predictably in many ways but when it came to emotions... that was an area Sherlock still did not truly understand. He made a mental note to work on that more. Understanding feelings.

Sherlock sighed softly as he turned dejectedly away from the train tracks. Well that was it. He had tried. Now he just had to cope with another long set of years without John. He could do it. He had to do it. Maybe he would take John's advice... No. He couldn't forget John. Move on from him. That wasn't what you did. You moved on when someone died. Not when they just left.

Something caught Sherlock's eye as he began to walk away. He was the man he was sure had been John's flatmate holding the leash attached to the dog that had been John's. Curious. He would have expected John to give the dog to his mother. If anyone.

Sherlock slowly headed over to the man, schooling his face. To a rather emotionless one. A cold mask settling across his features. One that was often there.

"Hello," Sherlock greeted with a slight, rather fake smile. "Were you Doctor John Watson's flatmate?"

"Eh, yes," came the reply, rather shocked. "I'm Mike. Mike Stamford."

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock replied, holding his hand out for Mike to shake. Mike did so though his mouth fell open into a gape as he remembered something.

"Sherlock Holmes? As in the Sherlock Holmes? The one whose grave John used to always visit?" Mike was gawping like a fish now. "You're dead."

"Ah, yes, that it but a small matter," Sherlock brushed it aside as if it did not matter. "I am very much alive and I am Sherlock Holmes. Now... is this dog John's?" He glanced down at the surprisingly obedient bulldog.

"Yes," Mike replied, tilting his head slightly. "He is called Gladstone."

"Curious that he gave him to you rather than his mother."

"His mother doesn't like dogs. I'm looking after him until I can find him a better home."

"Really? Because I'm looking to get a dog."

"Uh... ok."

"I'll take him. Believe me, I'll give him a great home. And John was once a very good friend of mine." Sherlock plastered a grin across his face.

"Em, sure, I guess. If you say so," Mike replied, unsure of what else to say. Ah, normal people. So easy to manipulate.

"Thank you," Sherlock smiled as he took the lead. All too easy. He'd better leave quickly, before Mike changed his mind. "Nice speaking to you."

What a blatant lie. But it came out of his lips easily enough. He hurried quickly away from the train station, trying to dampen the bombardment of thoughts that he got. It did not work. He would undoubtedly get a visit from Mycroft later. It would either be him or a whole bunch of police on a drugs bust. Making sure that he didn't have cocaine or anything. Sherlock did not want a visit. He just wanted to be alone.

Sherlock plopped down onto his couch after entering his flat, watching Gladstone almost curiously. The door peered back up at Sherlock before hopping onto his lap. Sherlock let him. He could see why John had got a dog. It's body offered a sort of warmth that was comforting. And Sherlock had no doubt that it would be useful for experiments... No, maybe that wasn't a good idea. He was all that Sherlock had left of John. That, his purple shirt and the scarf around his neck.

The dog looked up at him with painfully sad eyes, as if he understood Sherlock's thoughts. Sherlock let a light smile frame his lips though his eyes mimicked the half emotions of the dog.

"I guess it's just you and me now. The two that John left behind."


	13. It's Hard To Forgive

_27th of September, 2005_

To Sherlock Holmes,

I don't know what your address is so I've sent this to Molly. I'm sure she'll be able to get it to you. I knew she knew something. Now I know what it is.

I haven't forgiven you. Don't take this letter as me forgiving you. You faked your death. It will take time. Maybe when I come back we can start back. Maybe our relationship will eventually get to the level it was five years ago. I am not sure. But you can't expect to come back for everything to be the same. It doesn't work like that.

Still even if you were dead for five years you are still my friend. So I'm going to send you letters, just like I send them to my mum, Greg and Molly. Emailing would be so much easier but down here in the army we have to make do.

Scotland is beautiful. Rolling hills, fir tree forest, wildflowers, birds and animals. Quite a wild place. That's about were the good points end. At least for army training. I'm sure that it would be nice enough on a holiday. You wouldn't like it. There aren't enough people to deduce and I doubt that there are many good cases.

The weather is atrocious. It's already rather chilly in the mornings and we're lucky if we get a day when there isn't even the slightest amount of downpour. They weren't exaggerating when they said it always rained in Scotland. Thankfully the amount of rain decreases in winter, supposedly. I'm not so sure. It will get much colder, though. Which will be interesting.

Another rather horrible thing is the midges. They are everywhere. The rain seems to attract them and they hang in swarms when there is no wind. It makes eating outside near impossible. Take one bite of an apple and when you go for another midges are already coating the flesh. You get used to it, though. Extra protein I guess.

Actual training is hard. I thought I was fit but it turns out I'm not quite as athletic as I thought. Playing in a football team is nothing compared to this. I go to sleep exhausted every night and the ache in my muscles never goes away. It's a good pain, though. I can already feel my strength increase. I'm nowhere near the fittest in my group but I'm not the worst either. I've got a pretty good shot, though, so far. That should come in handy.

Anyway, I hope your well. Still solving cases and all. Feel free to reply, where to send it to is noted above.

Best wishes,

Doctor John Watson.

 

_11th of January, 2006_

To Sherlock Holmes,

I haven't got a reply to any of my letters. I guess you don't really have any reason to reply, though. But to tell the truth I was hoping for some to say the least. But you do work in mysterious ways.

I think about you often. I still miss you even if I lasted five years without you. I'm still not sure if I love you anymore but you were, are, the best friend I ever had. Even if you didn't realise it. Sure, you're not like most people. But that's what makes you... you. I guess. It's hard to explain. Especially through a letter.

Anyway, training is going well. It is absolutely freezing at the moment, especially in the morning. We often don't get the chance to wrap up warm before going on a morning run but I've began to adjust. Most of us have. We began to get closer which is good. We're all comrades to say the least, good friends at best. It varies with each person. I get on with almost anyone.

I'm still one of the best marksmen out of all the guys, my shot incredibly accurate. I don't know I guess I don't let any pressure get to me. War doesn't worry me as much as it once did. Death, maybe. Nobody wants to die. Me least of all. But sometimes that is just not possible.

I don't really have time to write much more. Try not to damage yourself solving any extra dangerous case.

Best wishes,

Doctor John Watson.

 

_27th of July, 2006_

To Sherlock Holmes,

This is going to be the last letter you receive (if you actually receive any of these) from Scotland. We're going to Afghanistan in a couple of days. We won't be in the front lines but everywhere is dangerous. I can't say that I'm not nervous. It's different training for certain situations then being in them.

Even though I trained as an army private I'm going to serve as a sort of medic as well. I just want to help everyone as much as I can. It is going to be dangerous... but all life is full of danger. At least I am serving my country.

I'll still send you letters from Afghanistan. A reply would be nice but don't feel any pressure to do such a thing. I understand that I did tell you to move one and all... I just hope that we can still be friends when I return.

Stay safe,

Doctor John Watson.


	14. I Need A Case!

Sherlock let a light frown as he set the latest letter from John, dated the 11th of January, down on the table. He had received the letter over a week ago yet hadn't read it. Not until now. It was still painful. He had lost John half a year ago and getting letters just reminded him of that fact. He hadn't replied yet. No, he could not reply yet. He didn't know what to say, write. He was slightly confused at the moment. Still. Things were meant to be different. He should be with John right now.

What if John... No. Sherlock couldn't think about that. Couldn't think about what would happen if John didn't come back alive. Instead came back... in a coffin. He wouldn't be able to bear life. No, he wouldn't be able to. If that happened he would be quite happy to fulfil Moriarty's earlier request. To fall.

Sherlock stopped the thoughts, a deep frown marring on his face. He had to reply to John... didn't he? Or else the slightly older man would get worried. Actually... he doubted that would happen. John would have other things on his mind. After all, he was training to be in the army. That must be pretty taxing. He had better things to do than worry about Sherlock.

Sherlock sighed, forcing the thoughts out of his head. There was no point in dwelling on these kind of things. God he needed a smoke... But that just wasn't feasible. Not in London. Not with Mycroft (annoyingly) keeping a constant watching on him. He had to settle for nicotine patches to dull his minor addiction. There, he admitted it. He had a slight addiction. But he still mainly smoked to clear his mind. But that was not an option. What else could he do? He needed to take his mind off this! He really did need to.

Sherlock paced around the flat, plopping on the small couch and staring at his mobile. He needed a case. He really _needed_ a case. Why wasn't there a case! Why couldn't there be one right now.

He spent the rest of the afternoon lying there, growing gradually more and more agitated. What was wrong with the criminal class? Why weren't they out performing intricate murders at that very moment? It was rather frustrating. It wasn't like they had anything else to do with their lives.

Sherlock almost jumped for joy when his beeping phone announced a call. He instantly answered, holding the mobile up to his ear.

"Sherlock Holmes speaking."

"Its Detective Inspector Gregson."

"Ah, Gregson. I hope all went well in the trial?"

"Yes, thanks to you. Eh, well, we need your help again. There's been a double homicide, the second one occurring only half an hour ago."

"Are you the DI in charge?"

"No."

"Who, then?"

"A new one. So be nice."

"Where?" Sherlock let a wide smile fall over his lips as DI Gregson divulged all the information he had to Sherlock. A curious case. This sounded like it was going to be a whole load of fun. Yes, just what he needed. It took him no time to grab all his stuff and head out the door, after making sure that Gladstone was ok (the dog spent most of his time lazing around). He hailed a taxi, eyes narrowed as he thought over what little facts he knew on the way there. Not anything to build a true explanation on. He had a few suspicions though. He would just have to wait until he got there.

Upon approaching the yellow police line Sherlock was greeted by a rather fierce looking police sergeant. An emotionless mask fell over his face as he scrutinised her. She seemed vaguely familiar.

"No citizens allowed past. This is a crime scene," she stated the obvious.

"Yes, I can see that quite clearly," Sherlock replied coldly, giving her his best hard stare. "I was sent by Gregson."

"I'm afraid I cannot let you past."

"Is that so?" Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "May I speak to the Detective Inspector in charge."

"I do not think that will be necessary. If you would just be on your way."

"On my way out should I just spread the news that you have been sleeping with the man over there from forensics?" Sherlock nodded in the direction of a rather grumpy looking forensics man standing at the door to the house where the murder had taken place. The sergeant blushed before disappearing off. Sherlock let a small smirk fall over his lips as he considered his victory.

The sergeant returned after a few moments with a rather young man. Sherlock guessed that he was around twenty three years of age, so only two years older than Sherlock, though his slightly greying hair made him looking slightly older than that. His dark eyes narrowed at the sight of Sherlock, as if trying to bring up some long forgotten memory.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," the man held out his hand with a half smile. "Gregson said that he would send someone over to help. I have to say I thought that it would be someone a bit... older. Who might you be? And if you don't mind me asking, have we met before?" Sherlock raised his dark eyebrow further. Now this was strange. He felt something tugging at his mind, from a room he had locked. The one depicting his last year of senior school. No, he wasn't ready to open that door. He would just have to leave it closed.

"I do not think we have met," Sherlock spoke as he shook Lestrade's hand. That name... it was somehow familiar. "The name is Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock?" Lestrade's mouth fell open, as did the sergeants. "Sherlock Holmes? But you're dead! You killed yourself over five years ago. Poor John was over himself with grief." Ah, that explained things. Definitely senior school. Lestrade... Now he remembered. He had been the one who had offered a measly amount of help. And the Sergeant... Sally Donovan. And the man she had slept with was Anderson. How amusing.

"As you can see I am quite alive," Sherlock smiled thinly. "I do not wish to go into the details."

"Does John know?"

"Yes, he has been informed."

"And he still went to the army?"

"Yes."

"Ah."

"Now... if you would take me to the body." Lestrade merely nodded, leading Sherlock into the house and up a flight of stairs. Sherlock instantly fell on the body, which was lying on its back facing the ceiling. He inspected every inch, meticulously finding every detail. He eventually hopped up, turning to Lestrade.

"The victim was killed with the use of poison, quite obviously. The two murders are connected, I believe, if the contact card in his wallet is anything to go by. The poison was applied earlier when the victim was out of the house and put into the tea as the murderer knew that would be drank. So someone close to him. Yes, definitely. The murderer was in fact a colleague. They did not work together in the sense of a normal job but rather some kind of criminal organisation. The murderer wanted to getting higher up within the crime circle thus killed off two of the members. I think you will find that he is currently getting a train from King's Cross station heading to York to find his next victim. This leaves in half an hour so if we hurry we can stop him." Leatrade quickly got a hold of his shock to bark out a few orders before heading to the police cars waiting outside. Sherlock followed, adrenaline pumping through his veins. There was going to be a confrontation, he could just tell. And this wasn't all of it. No there was more to this case.

Sherlock let the excitement run through him. A proper case. This was going to be fun.

So fun that the letter sat forgotten in his flat, never gaining a reply.


	15. That Interfering Bastard

_25th of August. 2006_

To Sherlock Holmes,

What the fuck? Seriously, what the fuck? I have been in Afghanistan for no more than a month and have already been told that I'm being moved. From my regiment (who I've grown quite close to, I'll have you know), who were situated not far off from the front lines. Now I've been told that I'm being moved to some hospital well away from the fighting! Sure, it will be helping people but I went through all the training to help in a different way. During fights.

I guess this means that you are reading my letters, though. And I should feel honoured that you are worried enough to pull strings and probably contact your brother. But I can look after myself, thank you very much. Your meddling will not help our relationship in anyway. No, you will have to wait until I come home. Stop trying to protect me. I joined up for a reason and I won't have you messing it up. So please, revert whatever you did.

In other news, Afghanistan... Well, it's hot. At the beginning it was quite nice and dramatically different from England. But now it's getting a bit... tiring. The constant heat beating down upon you and draining all energy. Especially when in full gear and the like. The bright colours are the same; nice at first then tiring. But it's good. All the guys in my regiment are great. Light hearted even in the middle of a warzone. I can now see why my dad was pushing me to join. It really does give you a sense of fulfilment. As if you have a true purpose.

Anyway, I'll cut this letter short. I hope you receive it and possible reply. Please? It would be really nice to hear from you. Beyond what I get from Lestrade. You two working together now, huh? Well, in a way. When he needs help he comes to you. Sounds exactly like the job you always wanted. You truly are a consulting detective now.

Well, stay safe.

Best wishes,

John Watson.

 

_13th of September, 2006_

Sherlock,

Thank you for doing all that was necessary to get me back to my regiment. I know I'm at risk but it is the way I like it. The days I spent at the hospital were tedious at best. No, I prefer it out here. Working on the field. Here I can help people before they get to the hospital.

Truthfully, it was horrible. One man came in with a terrible gun wound in his chest, dying only hours later. My only thoughts were that if a medic had been out on the field then he could have been saved. Instead he had to wait until reaching the hospital, which is busy and undersupplied as it is. I definitely need to be where I am. I feel so much more in control. Like I can help more. In more than one way.

I've been thinking, you know. It's been over six year since we last kissed. I miss those days. The good, happy days. When we were together. Before you faked your death (I still haven't forgiven you). I guess I'm beginning to reconcile with my feelings. I _do_ still love you. In a way. But that doesn't stop the feeling of betrayal. It definitely doesn't. I'm not quite ready to forgive and forget. But I will, eventually. I guess what I'm trying to say (excuse me, write) is that when I come back I'm prepared to start again. From scratch. Us as friends and if it so happens... become more. Again. But it won't all be the same instantly. You have to work for it. Work for my forgiveness. And there's a lot of work involved there.

Greg told me in his last letter that you were shot chasing a criminal. Are you ok? Please tell me that you are ok. I don't think I can cope with the thought of you being injured and alone. I guess that's partly my fault, eh? Yours too, though. You were a little too reckless according to Greg. Be more careful next time, okay? And safe recoveries.

Please reply.

Best wishes,

John.

 

_December 9th, 2006_

Sherlock,

We had our first casualty within the regiment. We've been here for over four months so it was going to happen eventually. But it didn't make it any better. No, not at all. We were out on patrol like usual. Seemed like our normal patrols. But it wasn't. No, it definitely wasn't.

Someone, one of the enemy you could say, had been watching us. Worked out our patrol route. A bomb had been placed along the path. Surprisingly well hidden. We weren't looking for it and that was where we were at fault. One of the men, Max, stepped on the bomb. It set off... blowing him to bits. Not a nice sight. Four other men in close proximity were injured.

It hasn't really sunk in yet. I haven't had time to mourn our loss. No, the instance after it happened I set myself to helping all the injured men. Making sure none of them died. I had help, thankfully. From everyone. It's nice to say that I saved at least one life today. They're all still alive. Thanks partially to me.

This is why I need to be where I am. There may be casualties, deaths, and I am at risk but... There's that chance I will save some people. And that's what I want to do.

Not to say that I don't miss you. Sometimes I want to get home so I can see you again. So that we can start over and all. This isn't really something I can discuss over letters. My feelings. But I can try. It would help if you would reply. Just once. Please.

Love,

John.


	16. A Step Off The Edge

Sherlock let a small smile slip over his lips as he looked at the small vial of liquid before him. This was it, the thing that the case depending on. And antidote; to the poison used in a recent string of murders. If this was the right antidote, which it was (Sherlock rarely got things wrong), then he would be step closer to solving this. So much closer... The murderer would be within reaching distance. He would be in Sherlock's grasp.

Now he just needed someone, something, to test it on. He had acquired some of the poison (he did not wish to divulge how) and now just needed a test subject. That might be hard to find... Wait. He had one right under his roof. Gladstone, who had formerly been John's dog. Sherlock doubted that the dog would complain and it wasn't like it was dangerous or anything. If the antidote wasn't quite right then the dog would die but... It was correct. Sherlock was never wrong in these things. Never.

Sherlock tried not to feel to gleeful as he called for the dog. It trotted through into the small kitchen, which Sherlock used for all his experiments. He was obedient and well trained, Sherlock would give John that. Though first his first owner had left it had turned rather lazy. To say the least.

Sherlock quickly filled a needle with the poison and another with the antidote. He crouched down next to Gladstone, soothingly stroking him as he gently injected it with the vile liquid. It took a few seconds for it to work, the dog's breathing becoming sort and ragged as he began to be pulled into an everlasting darkness. Sherlock didn't have much time to watch. No, he had to inject the antidote instantly. He pushed the needle in where it would get right into the bloodstream, watching carefully. This had to work. He injected the liquid, watching with an intense colourful gaze.

No. Something was meant to happen. Everything was meant to be fine! Why was the stupid dog's breathing decreasing. He was now scrambling about, trying to stop its fate. A glassy look fell across its eyes and then it was still. Silent. Dead.

Sherlock slowly stood up, keeping his emotionless eyes on the dog. He had done it now. He was dead. When John came back... John would hate him forever.

John.

Sherlock's mind was working at incredible speeds, bombarding him with thoughts. Memories. He almost blindly clutched for a chair. Sitting down so he did not fall over. It was all coming back. The things he had tried to lock away. Had tried to keep out of his subconscious memory. John... Meeting John for the first time. Talking with John. Kissing John. Being with John. Lying to John. That final phone call to John... John's face. His expression. Grief. Watching John over the years. John moving on. Going out with others.

Losing John.

A sudden, vivid daydream came across his eyes. It would be a nightmare if he wasn't awake. There was John... He was so close. Yet so far. His deep blue eyes seemed lifeless. Haunted. Boring right into Sherlock. There were distant explosions, the sounds of fighting raging about. John himself had a gun. He was fighting in what seemed to be a war. Sherlock wanted to shout at him. Tell him to come home. But he found that he was only a spectator. Nothing more. Then a gunshot rang through the air, loud and clear. A bullet hit John, directly in his heart, and he fell to the ground. Dead. No. This couldn't be real. John wasn't dead. He was safe.

Sherlock slowly turned to face the man who had killed John. Shock barely registered in his mind as he face down the barrel of the gun. As his eyes raised up to the one holding it. Dark curls, a pale face with sharp, high cheekbones. Eyes of many colours. It was him. He had shot John. He had killed John.

Sherlock broke out of the vision, breathing ragged and mind still dwelling on all. This. It wasn't real. It couldn't be real. But it was a possibility.

He needed something to clear his mind. Forget. Something, anything. Where was his secret stash?! Sherlock got up and stumbled into the small living room of his flat and desperately searched around. It had to be here somewhere. He knew he had put it somewhere. Somewhere Mycroft wouldn't look.

An almost smile appeared on his lips as he found it. Got out a needle and filled it with what he needed. Rolled up his sleeve and injected. Got another needle. Injected some more. He didn't care if Mycroft was watching. He just needed to forget. He needed to forget everything. All that had happened. To forget John.

Sherlock welcome the darkness that began to embrace him. The clearing of his mind...

White. Everything was so white when Sherlock woke. And the smell... Ugh, it was that of antiseptic. Seemed he was back in one of the places he hated the most. Hospital. And sitting beside his bed was one of the people he hated the most. Mycroft. He was getting a slight sense of déjà vu about this. Probably because it had happened before.

"Ah, you are awake," Mycroft comment in his normal drawl, eyes watching Sherlock carefully. Sherlock pushed himself up into a sitting position, glaring at his brother.

"Your deductive skills astound me."

"This is not the way to deal with it. To deal with your... emotions." Mycroft sneered the final word. "There are other ways to forget." Sherlock rolled his eyes. Like Mycroft really cared.

"Oh, I know. Believe me this won't happen again," Sherlock replied coldly, calmly. This time he knew he was telling the truth. It wouldn't happen again. Because he had another way to forget.

"I do not want the risk of it happening again," Mycroft pursed his lips.

"I am not moving in with you again."

"God forbid it."

"And I am not going into rehab. I'm not addicted."

"Then what do you suggest? And many facts towards that. This is the second time you have overdosed, Sherlock."

"Stop pretending to be concerned. Just confiscate all my drugs. Or something."

Mycroft arched an eyebrow. "Fine. I will not force you to go into rehab."

"Good. Now please, leave me. I do not think  I can suffer your presence any longer." Sherlock dismissed his brother, turning his head to look away. Mycroft stood to leave, pulling out his phone to make a call if he did so. He didn't trust his brother... Not one bit. So it seemed a meeting with Detective Inspector Lestrade would have to be organised.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, pressing his hands together under his chin. He blocked out everything that was around him and ventured into his mind palace. He was going to forget. Permanently. Detach himself from his emotions. He moved through his memories. All those of his last year of high school. They were deleted. Every single one. Well... Not every single one. Those happy ones with John... they were locked away. So he wouldn't remember them but so that he didn't delete them. He felt he couldn't.

Then the years while he had been 'dead.' All the things related to John. Everything to do with John. It was all locked away or deleted.

Then the day he went to the army. That too, was deleted.

Sherlock let out a sigh. Finally he could truly forget. Continue without emotions.

And when he returned home he would burn all the letters he had received.


	17. Is This The End?

_Three Years Later_

"Get down!"

Bullet soared through the air overhead, the sounds of guns ringing through the air. John leapt at the ground just in time, pressing himself right against it so to get behind what little shelter they had to hide behind. The shots stopped for just second and in that time all the men jumped up, moving forward again and preparing their guns.

"Get down!"

It was a close call again as John flung himself down, eyes narrowed. He pulled his gun out as he was lying there, getting it ready and waiting. An agonising cry came from somewhere nearby. An injury. John's ocean blue gaze swept to his left. A young soldier, reasonably new. Gun wound to the lower chest. Possible chance of survival. John slowly began to crawl in that direction, moving one hand to check that his medical pack was in its usual place. Yes. Good. He didn't think of anything else. Just concentrated on the patient he had to get towards. He needed to get the man out and get him treated.

John reached him, shuffling around to pull out what he needed. The poor man was barely conscious; mumbling incoherent things and muttering in pain. He had to get him away. If there was going to be any chance of his recovery.

"Move back!"

John mentally cursed, standing up slightly so he could loop the man's arm around his neck. He waited a few moments before fully getting up, supporting the man as he stumbled back.

"Leave him, John!" He heard someone shout to his right. He ignored them. He wasn't just going to leave the man. No, that was not right. He liked to think that if he was the one injured someone, even if they didn't have doctor training, would try to get them back.

Bullet were shot around them but thankfully the enemy didn't have very good aims. There was one near miss, the bullet being a hairbreadth away from John's side. He was thankful that it didn't hit him. He was almost there. So close.

A sudden, sharp pain burst in John's shoulder. He fell forward with a gasp as it spread like fire. He fell to the ground, dust clouding around him. His other hand went over to his shoulder, gripping it in an attempt to stop the blood the just worked its way around his fingers. Damn there was a lot of blood. The pain was excruciating. So this is what being shot felt like.

He was going to die. The bullet had hit a major artery. It would take some major miracle for him to survive. Damn, he was going to die. He wasn't ready to die. Sherlock had been right. Right to worry. But then again, John had known it was a possibility when he signed up. But he still had done it. Now he wouldn't get to see Sherlock again.

 _God, please save me. So I can see Sherlock again._ These were John's last thoughts before he slipped into darkness.

Everything was so white. Why was everything so white? He couldn't see a speck of another colour. Just sheet white above him. John blinked his eyes, feeling rather disorientated. Was this heaven? He hadn't expected it to be so... quiet.

John shifted slightly, groaning at the pain in his shoulder. No, that wasn't right. If he was dead, in heaven, then nothing would hurt. He would be better. Completely. No he must... still be alive? That was it. He was alive. He groaned again as he tried to sit up, blinking. A hospital. He was definitely in a hospital. And this wasn't any hospital in Afghanistan that he knew. They must have flown him back to Britain when he was unconscious.

He wasn't the only one in the ward. There were numerous beds on both sides, many occupied by one patient. It didn't take long for John to realise that they were all soldiers, like him. So a military hospital then. Great. He just wanted to know when he would recover. So he could leave and go back to the fighting. If they would let him go back. Maybe they wouldn't.

John sighed and sunk back down into his bed. The whole place was silent, the only light being that which peaked through the windows on the wall behind him. Early morning, John estimated. He hoped that he wouldn't be here long. He was dreadfully bored already.

He sat in his thoughts for hours before the place began to come alive, nurses bustling about as they brought breakfast to the waking patients. A doctor arrived beside John's bed, checking the wound and making sure he didn't have any brain damage due to blood loss. Of course he didn't. He was perfectly fine.

"How long until I'm released?" John asked the doctor, Dr Brown, as he ate the breakfast he had finally been given. Ugh. Hospital food.

"Around two weeks," Doctor Brown replied as he checked over his notes. Two weeks? God, this was going to be boring.

"When will I go back to the army?"

"You won't be going back to the army, Doctor Watson."

"Oh." John let it sink in. Brilliant. Well that was the end of his army career. What was he going to go now? Go back to normal hospital work. No, he doubted that would be the best idea. It would be so different... Damn, his leg hurt. Why did his leg hurt? He hadn't even been shot there. Anyway, he would dwell on that later.

"I'm dreadfully sorry, but it is just not possible. Once you are released you will be assigned to a therapist to make sure there haven't been any... effects on your mental health." Oh brilliant. Bloody brilliant. Another therapist. Damn, his leg really hurt.

John merely nodded in reply before asking for a book to read. To pass the time. The next two weeks would be fun. Planning out his future. What he was going to do with his life. Maybe he could find Sherlock... That may be hard, though. He didn't even know where the man lived. And he doubted he would have the same phone number. He would find someone he knew in London, he was sure.

That was the only area where he was certain. Where he wanted to live. London. It could on be London. But the rest... He really wasn't sure.

And his leg really did hurt.


	18. Be My Flatmate? Ha, Who Would Want That?

Sherlock felt an emotionless mask fall over his features as he exited the taxi and headed into St Bartholomew's Hospital, intent on getting to the Morgue quickly. His mind was void of feelings. Emotions. Those horrible things. No, he wouldn't let it get to him. That fact that no one seemed to want to flat share with him. At all. He just didn't get it. Supposedly he was just hard to get on with. Weird. A freak, in less polite terms. A few of the prospect flatmates had called him that. But that name didn't affect him. Not anymore.

"Sherlock! Hey, Sherlock!" Sherlock turned around with pursed lips. He knew the man heading towards him. Mike. Worked as a teacher at St Bart's. Had just finished teaching a class and had no more until lunch. Was planning to go out. Sherlock didn't bother to deduce anymore. There was no point. Mike was a boring man.

"Mike," Sherlock nodded him in acknowledgment as the shorter, rounder man caught up with him.

"How are you?"

"Fine," Sherlock replied, continuing with his long strides. Mike had to scurry to keep up. Not that Sherlock cared. He had no interest in talking to Mike.

"Any like in getting someone to flat share yet?" Mike asked. Ah, so he knew about that. News travelled. He had let it slip when having a brief conversation with Molly the day before.

"No. Who would want me as a flatmate?" Sherlock replied icily, coloured eyes cold. Mike shrugged slightly.

"I'm sure you will find someone."

"I find your optimism unfounded. There is no proof that that will happen." Sherlock ignored the slight sigh that came from Mike.  

"But it could still happen. If you want I could help you find someone. I might be able to get a word in with someone... more tolerable to a person of your temperament."

"Well I wish you luck in your search. I doubt you will be of much help." Sherlock guessed from Mike's slight frown and displeased reaction that he was being impolite. He didn't care. No, he couldn't care less what people thought. How they saw him. People were stupid. Idiotic, silly things. That was why he tried to avoid them.

"Thank you, I guess. If I find someone where will I find you?"

"The morgue or a research laboratory." With that Sherlock spun around, his black coat billowing up slightly, and entered the morgue. It did not take him long to locate Molly. She definitely wasn't the hardest person to find. She greeted him with a stupid stammering hello and a silly, almost doting smile. Ugh. Why did she have to continue this behaviour around him. He believed it was what one would call... fancying someone? Liking them? He did not know. It was all a bit childish to him.

"Where is the cadaver?" Sherlock cut off her continuous chatting. It was beginning to irritate him.

"Just over here." Molly led him towards a black bag. Sherlock approached it with narrowed eyes, unzipping the bag and sniffing slightly.

"How fresh?"

"Just in. Sixty seven, natural causes. Used to work here. I knew him, he was nice."  Brilliant, she was talking again. She would continue like this for a while...  How irritating. He didn't care if she had know the man. If he was nice. Any of it. It didn't matter. No of that mattered. No, not at all. What he was going to do... It was important. A man's alibi depended on it.

"Fine. We'll start with the riding crop."


	19. It's Good To Be Home. Sort Of.

John leaned on his walking stick heavily as he walked through the streets of London. He didn't really know where he was going. Just wandering, he guessed. Maybe he would visit some of the places he really knew in London. His old university campus. His old flat. If he was lucky he would bump into some old friends. Maybe they would have some contacts. Because... Staying in London was hard. Near impossible when only on an army pension. Truthfully there was one person he was hoping to find. One person he couldn't truly ever forget.

St Bartholomew's Hospital was nearby suddenly and he was walking on a small path between to grassy stretches. He remembered this area. From his university years. Working at St Bart's, learning there. Those had been good times. In some ways.

"John. John Watson." John narrowed his eyes as someone, whose voice he didn't recognise, said his name. He turned around to be faced by a man slightly shorter than him, wearing glasses and with sort of brown hair. He was vaguely familiar. Where did John know him from.

"Stamford. Mike Stamford." The man smiled at him. Ah, that was it! He remembered now. That had flat shared in university and had been at St Bart's together. It all fit into place.

"Yes, Mike, hello, Mike," John smiled slightly, moving his cane to his other hand to shake Mike's.

"Yes, I know, I got fat."

"No," John replied in a slight murmur, shaking his head.

"I heard you were off somewhere getting shot at. What happened." John tried to not laugh, or even raise an eyebrow, at the incredulity  of that question. John took a moment before answering.

"I got shot."

How he ended up sitting on a bench drinking coffee and chatting with Mike John didn't know. He guessed it was just nice to see a friendly face. Have someone to talk to still.

"Still at Bart's then?" John broke the silence, glancing at Mike.

"Teaching. Bright young things like we used to be." John smiled slightly. "God I hate them." They shared a small, if a bit awkward, laugh.

"What about you, just staying in town while you get yourself sorted?" Mike queried.

John made an almost annoyed sound, the slight smile that had formed on his face being wiped off. "Can't afford to live in London on an army pension."

"And you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know."

"Yeh I'm not the John Watson-" John snapped, stopping before he went too far. Mike was just being polite. Nice. He had no need to snap or get irritated. He clenched his hand slightly, trying to relieve some of the tension he felt.

"Couldn't Harry help?"

John almost burst out laughing at how ridiculous that question was. Harry help? That would be a day. "Yeh like that's going to happen."

"I don't know, you could get a flat share or something," Mike shrugged slightly. John glanced at him. That would be nice. But it wouldn't happen. No, John had no hopes for it.

"Come on, who would want me for a flatmate?" Mike began to laugh at John's question. Why was he laughing? It wasn't funny.

"What?" John narrowed his eyes slightly.

"Well you're the second person to say that to me today."

"Who was the first?"

John couldn't help but feel curious as Mike led him into St Bart's and towards one of the labs. Mike had refused to tell him exactly who it was under the terms that it may scare John away. John hadn't been back in London a lot. How would a name scare him off? Anyway, he couldn't exactly argue with Mike. So he would just go along and see who it was. He would be very lucky if it was anyone who would share it flat with him. Even if they themselves thought no one would want to be their flatmate. Anyway, he would see.

Mike stopped, knocking on a door only to instantly open it. John entered right behind him, taking a glance around the place as he limped further in. Wow, it had changed. So much... technology. He remembered when he had been here with Mike. God that seemed like so long ago.

"Bit different from my day," he commented, not really to anyone in particular as he continued to look around."

"You have no idea," Mike replied with a slightly smile.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." Only then was John's gaze drawn to the other person in the room. Shock shot through his mind, causing his ocean blue eyes to widen slightly. He recognised the man instantly. Dark, reasonably unruly curls, pale skin, tall. Eyes of so many colours it was hard to put a name on them. Deep baritone, so smooth and... beautiful? Yes, it still sounded beautiful. Unmistakable. John couldn't believe it. It was a strange coincidence. Or maybe it was fate. John wasn't sure.

"What's wrong with a landline?"

"Oh, I prefer to text." John watched the scene curiously. Sherlock hadn't seemed to notice him. Yet.

"Sorry, it's in my coat."

"Eh, here. Use mine." John spoke on whim, pulling his mobile out of his coat pocket. He tried not to react to Sherlock's intense gaze, returning it evenly. Sherlock was wearing that look when... when he deduced someone. Why? Surely he remembered John. It had only been five years and John had sent letters regularly, though he had never got a reply.

"Oh, thank you," Sherlock smiled slightly. Not quite one of the real ones he always used to flash at John.

"It's an old friend of mine, John Watson." John arched an eyebrow as Mike introduced him. Strange. Sherlock walked over and took the phone from John, who gave him a slight smile.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock queried as he opened the mobile.

"Sorry?" John glanced at Sherlock in a confused manner. Surely he knew?

"Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John shared a look with Mike before glancing back at Sherlock. "Afghanistan. Sorry-"

" Molly, coffee, thank you," Sherlock interrupted him as the door opened as the door opened and Molly walked in carrying a mug of coffee. She hadn't changed much since John had last seen her. No, not at all. "What happened to the lipstick?"

"It wasn't working for me," Molly replied nervously with a slight smile. John watched with a slight frown.

"Really? I think it was a big improvement. Mouth's too small now."

"Okay." With that Molly scurried out, flashing a smile at John on the way out.

"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock seemed to be addressing John now.

"I'm sorry, what?" John was still confused.

"I play the violin when I'm thinking, sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." Sherlock finished with a smile.

"Are you... You... You told him about me?" It was John's natural response. He had forgotten what it was like being around Sherlock the all deducing genius.

"Not a word," Mike replied with a shake of his head.

"And who said anything about flatmates?" John asked Sherlock, shifting his weight slightly.

"I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. It was no difficult leap."

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John wanted to hear his answers. He was being filled with a terrible sense of dread. That somehow... Sherlock had forgotten him. That he had deduced that John had been in Afghanistan rather than remembering him and getting all the letters. John vaguely remembered Sherlock telling him something about being able to delete memories. Maybe that was what he had done. Maybe he had deleted all memory of John...

"I've got my eyes on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." It seemed like Sherlock was changing the subject. We'll meet there tomorrow evening seven o'clock. Sorry, gotta dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." Sherlock had pulled on his coat (the same on as he had worn all those years ago in school) and was heading for the door.

"Is that it?" John turned around to face Sherlock as he brought forth the question. His eyes glanced down to the scarf Sherlock wore around his neck. The same one that he had got him ten years ago for his birthday. Still in pristine condition. Strange.

"Is that what?"

"We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat." It was true. They hadn't truly had contact for ten years. Half of which John had thought Sherlock was dead.

"Problem?"

"We don't know a thing about each other, I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name." The last was a sort of lie. He did know Sherlock's name. It was just a test to... find out if Sherlock remembered him. Corrected him. Said 'John, of course you know my name! Remember our last year at school together?'

"I know you're an army doctor and you been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother whose worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks that your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid." John automatically looked down at his bad leg. "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" Sherlock smiled slightly as he moved back towards the door. He peered back round it just as he was about to leave. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street." He made a strange sound and winked at John before leaving with one last afternoon to Mike. John was left staring at the door before glancing at Mike.

"Yeh. He's always like that," Mike said as an almost explanation. John tried not to shout at Mike. He knew what Sherlock was like! They had shared a room ten years ago... They had been going out, in a way. John had loved Sherlock. Damn, he still loved Sherlock. Even... Even if Sherlock didn't remember him. John almost couldn't cope with it. Sherlock not remembering. Yes, he had had told Sherlock to move on. But not in that manner.

John hadn't thought that coming home would cause as much pain to him as it did. Not in this way. No, he hadn't expected his heart to break again from one meeting.


	20. A Happy Ending? Hopefully.

John was already standing at the door when Sherlock stepped out of the taxi, having paid the driver. He glanced over the shorter man. A scrutinising look. He had walked. That much was obvious. Even though he had that terrible limp... Strange. Maybe he didn't have enough money to pay for the taxi? Probably. After all he was obviously living on an army pension at the moment.

"Hello," Sherlock said in a reasonably friendly manner as he got out.

"Ah, Mr Holmes." John seemed to be leaning quite heavily on his stick. Sherlock arched an eyebrow slightly.

"Sherlock, please." Sherlock shook his hand as he approached the door. It was black, golden letters on its front proclaiming '221B.'

"Well this is a prime spot. Must be expensive."

"I know Mrs Hudson, the landlady. She's given me a special deal. Owes me a favour. Few years back her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help her out."

"So you stopped her husband being executed?"

"Oh no, I ensured it." Just then the door opened, revealing Mrs Hudson.

"Sherlock," she smiled as Sherlock moved in to give her a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek.

"Mrs Hudson, Dr John Watson," Sherlock introduced them with a smile.

"Hello, come in," Mrs Hudson indicated for them to come in.

"Hello, thank you," John replied reasonably quietly, moving into the house. Sherlock ran up the stairs ahead of John, waiting at the top as he heard the distinctive tap of John's cane hitting the ground. He opened the door rather dramatically when John reached the top of the stairs and stepped in. Watching John carefully to gauge his reaction.

"Well this could be very nice," John eventually announced after looking around the room. "Very nice indeed."

"Yes. Yes I think so. My thoughts precisely. As soon as we get you moved in."

"As soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned up." Sherlock frowned as they spoke the last sentences together. He hadn't thought it was in that bad a state. He had already moved in and it wasn't exactly the tidiest... But it wasn't rubbish. Not really. They stared at each other for a few moments before Sherlock moved and began to pick stuff up.

"So this is the-"

"Well obviously I can straighten things up a bit," Sherlock interrupted him as he continued to move things rather randomly. It didn't really make what John appeared to think was a mess any better.

"That's a skull." John pointed to Sherlock's skull with a cane. Pointing out the obvious. How Sherlock hated when people pointed out the obvious. But he would let it slide. This time.

"Friend of my," Sherlock replied instantly, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets and watching John. "When I say friend..."

"What do you think then, Doctor Watson?" It seemed that Mrs Hudson had come into the room. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you be needing two bedrooms." Sherlock smirked ever so slightly as he pulled off his black trench coat and blue scarf.

"Well of course we'll be needing two," John looked completely and utterly bewildered. Sherlock tried not to laugh just a little at that expression. Although, he guessed it was a natural one. To be confused at a statement like Mrs Hudson's.

"Oh don't worry, there's all sorts round here," Mrs Hudson instantly replied. "Mrs Turner next door's got married once." Her voice lowered to a whisper at the last part as she headed towards the kitchen. "Sherlock! The mess you've made." Sherlock looked up from what he was doing. He didn't respond.

John seemed to have sat down on one of the seats with a slight sound that maybe came from pain... or maybe it was just the effort of sitting down.

"I looked you up on the internet last night." Sherlock turned around at that statement.

"Anything interesting?"

"I found your website. The science of deduction."

"What did you think?" A slight smile turned up the corners of Sherlock's mouth. John gave him an almost criticising, scrutinising look. Sherlock's expression turned into one of slight confusion, a small frown replacing the tiny smile.

"You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb."

"Yes. And I can read your military career in your face and your leg and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

"How?" John seemed curious more than ever. Almost as if... He was trying to remember something. Sherlock didn't understand that. It wasn't like he had ever met John before so the other man shouldn't know about his deductions. Sherlock decided to just smile and not reply.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock? Thought that would be right up your street. Three exactly the same." Mrs Hudson was look at a newspaper as she spoke.

"Four. There's been a fourth." Sherlock looked out the window at the police car that was parked outside. Obviously Lestrade had decided to pay him a visit. "There's something different this time."

"A fourth?" Mrs Hudson sounded shocked. Sherlock turned around to notice Lestrade striding up the stairs. He tried not to smirk. This was obviously far too hard for the police to solve with their stupidity.

"Where?" Sherlock instantly asked.

"Brickston, Lauriston Gardens," came the reply from Lestrade.

"What's new about this one, you wouldn't have come to get me unless there was something different."

"You know how they never leave notes? This one did." Sherlock lifted his head slightly in thought. Interesting. Very interesting... "Will you come?"

"Whose on forensics?"

"Anderson."

Sherlock frowned, turning his head away from Lestrade in a half shake. "Anderson won't work with me."

"Well he won't be your assistant."

"I _need_ an assistant." Sherlock looked at Lestrade again. He was shocked that the detective inspector didn't see that. How was Sherlock meant to inspect a crime without an assistant?

"Will you come?" Lestrade just sounded slightly... tired.

"Not in a police car, I'll be right behind."

"Thank you." Lestrade nodded to John, who just looked a bit bewildered, and Mrs Hudson before leaving. Sherlock waited until he was out of sight before letting a smile slip across his lips.

"Brilliant!" He jumped forward in the air, bringing his arms towards his chest with his hands balled into fists.. "Yes!" A grin had spread across his lips. "Ah, four serial suicides and now a note. Ah, it's Christmas. Mrs Hudson, I'll be late, might need some food."

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper."

"Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up." He had pulled back on his coat and scarf and grabbed the door handle, moving through quickly. He quickly made his way down the stairs, a light jog. It wasn't like he was in a rush but... Four serial suicides! This was a case he had been waiting for. Something exciting! Something fun! To ease the boredom he had been feeling lately. If only he had an assistant...

Wait a minute. John was a doctor. An army doctor to be precise. He would have seen loads of action and his medical opinion could be useful. Possibly. Well, not all that much. But he would be quite good company. Yes, there was an idea. He would ask John to come as his assistant. Sherlock jogged back up the stairs, a light smile on his lips and his colourful eyes glowing. He hovered in the doorway for a few moments, waiting for Mrs Hudson to leave, before speaking.

"You're a doctor. In fact you're an army doctor."

"Yes." John cleared his throat and grabbed his cane, using it to stand up from his seat.

"Any good?"

"Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries then? Violent deaths?" Sherlock moved towards John, pulling on his gloves.

"Yes."

"Bit of trouble to I bet." Sherlock now stood right in front of John, staring down at him. Watching his reactions.

"Of course, yes. Enough for a life time. Far too much."

"Want to see some more?" There was a slight pause after Sherlock's question. There was something in John's eyes... It was strangely familiar. Words formed on John's lips then died also upon them. Then suddenly John dropped his cane, moving forward. Their lips brushed momentarily... but it was enough.

It unlocked everything. The door to the room locked shut and banished to the back of Sherlock's mind burst open. Memories clouded his thoughts. Painful ones. So many painful ones starting ten years ago. But there were also happy ones. Brilliant memories. Ones of kissing. New Year's Eve. Sherlock's birthday. So many. All centred on, and concerning, John.

Sherlock quickly locked his arms around John's waist, pulling him closer so he didn't move away. So the light brush of the lips turned into a small kiss. Sherlock tilted his head downwards and John stood on his tiptoes so they could deepen it. Sherlock eventually pulled away, breathless and eyes shining, as he remembered why he had came back up to get John.

"So you'll come?" Sherlock's eyes twinkled almost teasingly. "So it will just be like old times? Reform the Sociopath Society.

"God, yes," John breathed, ocean blue eyes shining. "Just like old times." Sherlock smiled down at him, grabbing his hand and pulling him out of the flat as quickly as possible. He wanted this case solved so he could spend time with John. Pick up where they left off.

Now that he remembered everything would be the way they should be. Perfect.

 


End file.
